later, you would shave your head. and i would trim the hair
on the nape of your neck. this notion of time, a passing year,
another we’ve made together.
you ask me – what sex is the baby.
but i don’t answer. instead, i tell you
it is okay for you to remarry when i die.
i see it in my face more than yours.
these gray roots and the lines around my mouth.
– she will have your eyes.
i woke up last night, and the porch light was on.
i swear i heard rain. a ghost reached for you.
and then i found you –
asleep between two daughters,
wearing an old sweater
i bought you years ago.