I dream in another language

kill time by naming everything

in the room but you, los estantes

con las fotos de la familia

but none of you

 

still lurking around las esquinas

of my mind, in the curve of her

jaw, the curve of her nose

the full bow of her lips making

me remember our citas our trysts

 

that day in the tony libreria

when we met again

twenty years later, cheek besos

our awkward silencia forming

puentes arching over deep waters

 

the two of us standing at opposite ends

la bandera blanca stabbed into pan dulce

on the blue plate and you playing

to form by asking me what was

my real hair color how you missed

my gasp concealed in a hot

swallow of my café con leche

 

your own more gray than brown and

how your hand reached for mine as you asked

if we might come to be amigos and atras los años

how I’m still considering your question.