child, the halo above your head has slipped.
no longer the portraits once framed by our parents:
cracked knuckles, clutched fingers,
carefully curled body.
the back row of a chinatown bus where eternally
i hope to find your outline
back from boston.
time stutters, you mutter nothings of
do not make whispers of me to that boy's ear.
a l w a y s n e r v o u s
you liked my dress & i
seduced you with my glasses on.
now you are just a heavy memory.