You were hardly poetry today.

You were

something closer to prose, punctuated,

unrelenting, toothless. We

were singing in the car

and I knew the lyrics better than you

So you sang a second behind, it was

like the half

whispered echo of the half

of the congregation that doesn’t know Hebrew

but recognizes the melody (rhythmic

if uneven)

you are present if not sure

(your arms,

like my arms,

like a long day, like cold cotton sheets)

You’re the time I

wrapped myself in Christmas lights,

stared at my arms cradled in white light,

unplugged them, crawled into bed,

and saw the night sky.