Us

I am me, but I know I look like her.

Perhaps my eyes and my nose are bigger
But there's something -- in the slope of my cheek,
In the lingering ring of a sudden laugh,
In the curtness of an unexpected cough,
Or around the bulkiness of my knees,
And the way my ankles stand oblique
Below my shins and above my feet --
Which is hers.

I wonder if and what they think about it.

Eleven months of the year they live
In her absolute physical absence --
That initially unthinkable state
Left in the wake of any departure
But later neutralized into acceptance --
And then I arrive, and for a whole month
Walk around on her ankles, with her smile,
In her profile.

Do they see me, or her, or both of us?

Or do they, perhaps, see all four of us
And how we stood, that summer by the sea,
On the balcony above the lemon tree
Silent together, the blueness below
Glittering in the late sun, stretching
Towards the horizon with no sails in sight
As the church bell began to strike the hour
At eight?

In the meantime, I should walk carefully.
My ankles and I seem to be carrying
More than my own weight.