tagNon-Erotic PoetryThe Second Coming Home

The Second Coming Home


The day shifts in and out of gear
in coffee sips, in yellow light.
Feet creak on steps, music plays
between notes. Voices speak
behind layered edifice, composed
in pleasantry or simply enclosed.

I can't explain why
a certain tilt of face
or the widening of eyes
reminds me of everything
familiar unlocked from other years
to find home in your smile.

I looked through boxes of photographs,
sepia grandpa at his rolltop desk,
daddy posed on a diving board, mama
tan as coffee beans, leaning long-legged
on a car years before I am born, me,
prescient in her face.

I wear my grandmother in my left hand,
I wear my sister on my poems.
I lost those photographs years ago,
but I keep their imprint tucked
behind times tables and grocery lists.
I must have them there
in your eyes, watch the flickers
mix with yours because I want you
to take care of them for me.

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byAngeline© 7 comments/ 3209 views/ 0 favorites

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