Ten Years Later
by Erin Kirsh
Here I thought I saw you,
an intrepid reflection in swollen
puddles, visible
like the leaves of the oaks rippling
in shallow water luminescent
with oil. I am reminded
of walking through plashes,
wetting socks, peering down hard
enough to complete the illusion
of walking through sky. I do not
feel that wonder when I
catch your specter staring.
Instead,
memories of laying unfriendly stones
on your forever patch of earth.
My feet were wet then, too, and my face
and borrowed Dead Kennedys shirt.
Your apparition has startled me
often this decade, unaged, the youth of you
striking.
I have moved my fingers to the cuts
of crow’s feet trailing my temples.
I do not cover my chest or mouth,
I touch my aging. The horror of it, and you
without the option.
