with the same shape as
me in this waking life—
with the same oafish gait
& deckled smile. to whom
I’d feed cold scallion soba
in summer, warmest jook—
perfumed only with wild garlic,
mountain lime—in the cut
of winter. someone to nourish.
surely they would know
we are of the same shape,
that we both howl callous
in the squalls of monsoon,
or divot the pomegranates
with our thumbs at the market.
nightly I lift my quilt hoping
they are there. & I lift my chin,
my eyes as mirrors framing
the moon, which swims
silver even as I sleep.