Ourobouros

You walk into the square of light
afforded us by the window.
You go from sepulchral to bronze
in three steps or less and I am
mute as virgin marble in an
impossible hall. Remember yourself this way, I silently
wish for you, but wishes are waterlogged things.
So you will forget all of

this before I can even note
your passing into the kitchen
where you are flesh once more and no
longer kicking down the doors
of heaven demanding with your
limbs graceful as whale bone to be
noticed. You dress and then leave.
This was ten years ago and long

still do I have before I can
witness another become light
like you did that day before me.
The closest I've come since is: once
I was struck by lightning in the
clavicle and although I don't
recall all the particulars,
I could swear something like you

was there, deflecting sun off its
shoulders. Another instance to note:
falling asleep at the wheel and
waking half-full of life beneath
a bent highway sign, "Exit Here,"
then, too, did I taste your silver.
Then, too, did I feel not enough.
Do you ever see me through

a lens too weak to capture my
shape accurately? Memory
is a half-hearted archivist,
but does he bring you scraps of me?
An elbow? An uneven eye?
My ethnic scent? The madness of
my sleep? (O, calisthenic dreamer!)
You are married now to a man

you would have hated ten years back.
Is the heart a snake that devours
itself? Have you bitten to the
part where I'm the villain? Ten years
from today you will wake up lost
for me. Ten years from today I'll
remember that day differently:
You walk into the fire of

day afforded by the window.
Frozen momentarily there,
I see you clearly for the first
time. You're as cruel in the mouth as
tree bark. I remember daily
injustices doled by your hand.
I bristle over the thought of
your skin on mine. Forget this, I

silently wish for myself. But
wishes are half-hearted vessels
built for failure like a wax-winged
phoenix, rising from the ashes
only to go tumbling hackles
over talons back to the dust.