I LOOK AT THE PICTURE
After all those years
His face is like my home
With the corners I clean
And corners where spiders hang,
With cracks of light under the doors
Where pink gekos pass,
With ants as fine as hair
On the pale marble counter in the kitchen
On the way to the honey,
With the dark tea shadows in the cups
And the floor-tiles spotted flower stamens
And the tall walls which watch over
And the roof with flies off.
After all those years
His face is like my home
With the tangled hair,
Textured antique skin etched in wrinkles,
The eyes so wonderfully looking
Outward (bright bright accurately)
And inward (dark)
And the lips that are kissing
Despairingly.
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