I put a marker in the day, a slip of paper
to arrive at if
and you were still there
– well, what then. I would
recite a liturgy for you
of my good fortune,
and windows in evening filled
with light are the last thing
to see, how you call
me by names I did not know were mine,
yet recognizable – a woman
within a woman within
a woman. Already the story of your leaving forms
less of fear and more
an exercise in suspending belief, short rehearsal
for death, what
“could be.” Tenderness beyond grasp, you come
over me in my sleep, drawn long between
mirrors of night and morning, or just
the mirrors hung on opposite walls as they are
glass and still curving
your back around my eyes. Through which you may
go is the door to leave ajar
any chance remaining.