I remember the nights we used to
sneak out of bed and creep down into the depths
of your basement, play hide-and-seek, losing
ourselves among rolls of shiny glitter giftwrap and
plastic storage boxes big and hollow enough
to tuck our eight-year-old selves inside.
You were never good at hiding, didn’t
want to duck under desks lined with dust
or crouch in corners where cobwebs flowered,
so you stood behind doors, just
inside closets, where every found you! was
as easy and quick as silver blades glinting
over ice, frozen figure-eights, or infinities—
we were infinite, then—
you did not like blades,
you did not like ice.
Darkness did not come naturally to you,
you bent yourself against it, curled
into a comma cocooned in comforters, pink lace and rosebuds,
said, leave the light on. You implored me, the sleepless one,
to rouse you at midnight so we could delve
to the depths of your basement and I watched you,
eyes refusing to shutter, seconds pounding
away in my temples. I wanted
to immortalize you, paint your cinnamon cheeks
on a canvas the size of the heavens,
write a ghazal to your deep, even breaths; placid,
dainty, a crystal chandelier or a porcelain vase
the color of sea foam or spun sugar—I wanted
to shatter you.
I see flashes of you now, rare enough that you could be an optical illusion,
splintered light, refuge, oasis built up after one
too many months of desert, real enough that I know you’re
not. Walk down a hallway: eyes flash down to meet
tile and grime, hips shift into doorway, cinnamon
cheeks tuck into shoulder-length hair, I know
you see me. You were never good
at hiding.