He is there, in a bubble, in my mind’s left corner.
Can he see me? Does he know I see him?
The time his knee hurts. He rubs with large-knuckled fingers.
Does he know that my bones know his bones, marrow jellied?
That together we remember the gazelle.
That together we remember the tobacco fields.
That together we remember grandma and always
having sweet potatoes in our pockets.
My mouth speaks and his ear perks.
He thinks it’s a fly and swats the re-membering away.
Sometimes he’s close to the bubble, his grandchildren at his side.
Face, nose and lips, push through stretching the circle.
Unable to break the membrane, the cord.
The thread that stitches through
a bracelet dangling charms.
All our lives sewn together.
Blood left on the knot pulled tight
cut with teeth.
