I remember meeting you
during the Christmas holidays
many years ago.
A fire burned in the fireplace
but you had a glow
that tugged at the moth–in-me.
Behind your cherub mask
your dark eyes darted,
searching, I suspect,
for affirmation of your beauty,
and beneath the bell tones
of your laugh
I sensed
the broken pieces of your past.
II
And now, a series of images:
(you taking nourishment in my soup kitchen)
(you [dark] and your twin [blonde]
in the yard
near another fire –
two deaemons of desire)
(you making up your face,
naked in a mirror,
watching me watch you in the glass,
as if to ask,
“Do you see me yet?”)
III
So, how many years have we been waiting,
lost in our respective maelstroms,
all those cycles of the moon?
Still I dream of waves,
roiling up the strand,
while you,
like a child,
on the bright blue sand
hold me,
like a shell, in your small white hand.
