I have you in my bones, the way I laugh,
The way I shrug, a moodiness that gathers
When I don't get my way. You are half
Of me, and yet I've never met you. It matters,
Oh, yes, it matters. You are in my smile,
The way I whistle when I'm happy, a certain
Skip up the stairs, a jaunty sense of style,
Off-kilter, off-key. I peer around the curtain
Of your abandonment and wonder: What
If you had stayed, had loved me, had loved my mother?
And what does it say of me that you would put
Yourself so first? Is that also me? What other
Ugliness have I from you? Or grace?
They say I am the mirror of your face.
Copyright by Nicholas Gordon