Once I dreamt a child in a striped shirt was left on my doorstep.
I cradled her all night, swayed in the brown recliner you
folded laundry in, while I slept upstairs.
Her body warm in my arms, head carved against my chest,
her dark hair a curly bob sliced straight at her chin. Like
my hair at six. The scent of ammonia after two perms- our hair
only different in color.
It is the only place I see you beyond gray stone. Beyond an engraved
name, the outline gone black with time- a repeated
dream. Your body wrapped in a green nightgown, the soft creek of
a swaying chair, the stroke of hands soothing fabric still hot with