I have never known a closeness like that.
—Anne Carson

The backseat
of dad’s car, warm limbs
pressing, stale sleep smell
in our mouths. Whenever
heads touched, our
dreams were related
by blood.
It all was a kind of magic
then.
Now, I get off the plane
and keep waiting for the part
where you need me again.
We eat Turkish delight
wrapped in tissue paper,
and the gaunt moon
salivates. Years ago we stood
side by side
on the driveway at night,
moths spilling white dust
onto our palms.