When that door shuts softly behind you
I will search my face for yours
and shadows that contradict the light
from the bare bulb in this, my room, my study
I will stand for hours before the mirror
and plumb the hollows of my wide eyes

I will recite your stories from memory
tend them like flowers in a hothouse
water them, change their pots
as their petals unfurl in fantasy
fertilized by your loose, soft skin

I consider the shapes of your teeth
as breath and tales drift hot across them
I find your lines in my father's, my uncle's faces
My children will know you in their bodies
and from the stories I will tell them
as they sail, captains of famous ships,
over the rim of sleep.


[This message has been edited by Generalkaos (edited February 10, 2002).]