From home his shoes (sole-less) walk to market.
Obitual, behind, his wife begins,
resists the need to touch, to find a close--
the only covered piece, a black mirror.
Ymeri travels far from reflections.
“Divulge my secrets” he begs of nighttimes,
and times of suns too. Sees the things he touched,
yawning bellies full of sweetness, childhood,
submerged in melted memory of fruit.
Oh war! The thunder-break in all my hearts,
Fermenting through the house I burned in haste.
My wife, I saw her first by this old tree--
Ophiucus rising in a star-filled arc.
Under his swing we kissed each other’s eyes,
recalled the outline of that ebb and flow.
Nearby, old age becomes more fluid, waits--
Indoors the patterns move, he chokes on sparks.
Not yet! But Death has arms that reach back home.
Go back, your wife still waits, all is quiet.
Unfed on grief, the mirror’s covered stare--
Sometime today Ymeri will come home.