son of my right hand
Return to me, for I never knew you.
Was it the wetness of the moment,
A foreign memory cast about me in a fine mist?
I know those images, casual sketches
Casually gestured at but imbued with love
In their creation—
They worked on me. And yet, and yet
I didn’t think of them any more
Than I just imagined you there: Real, shimmering
With life, and there were tears (I could not tell why)
As the ache stabbed upward.
The ripples of you, carried in supple jars
Falling all around me, and I felt your smile
And laughing eyes like an iridescent curtain.
Why did you leave? Why was I kept from knowing you?
Oh, I am unworthy of your limpid heartbeat,
Of those in my charge. Yes—
He has worthied us of each other, and yet, and yet
How? Promise you will return.