I paint a sepia line, freehand,
my smallest brush, a barely
perceptible dot of water,
so the line’s edges shade into
a wash, the wash a shadow.
I lean down until my nose
almost touches the wet line,
the puckered paper, my back
curved, and I stare until
the line becomes you, my
memory adding your body
Another empty day but I had
the constant sense you were nearby.
I was so certain, I put on my shoes
and hiked the neighborhood,
as if you could be waiting, watching,
suppressing your glee. I prayed
you would jump down as I passed
underneath your limb. You are
my phantom limb. Once you told me
there are eleven dimensions and
slightly or very different events
In the dark my clenched eyelids
are fringed with wild blue paisleys
and it’s sad you can’t see them.
Today perhaps you wore a retro-
tie-dyed shirt, faux leopardskin bra,
those long earrings I almost swallowed.
I watch for you and breathe in
thick winter fog, breathe out
steamy aromatic memories
I had inhaled when last with you.
I balance the breaths, juggle
the frosty earth and whitened plants,
the pale smudge in the sky that is the sun,
the paler smear that is the moon,
the icy malingering mud,
the dark matter between celestial bodies,