There is the image that is removed
from the source: the room unmaking space
around a candle—the light denuded,
a breath withdrawing from its place.
Or the space around that breath—where we
hold our bodies in the mirror’s frame,
repeating some inherited degree
of mother, father—gestures without name.
To be inside and outside the room,
to be inside and outside our bodies—
the light does not distinguish. Assume
the eye returns to where it used to be,
and thought, unlit, divides what we are taught:
two bodies bending toward one thought.

Spilled wine spreads to the edge of my napkin
over the course of dinner. I confess
my wife has thirteen ribs—then I open
a third bottle as we compare traumas.
The gay waiter interposes his tray
with the indifference of a Greek chorus:
“Our most popular sin is the soufflé.”
An hour later, my red napkin could pass
for a thin sheet of venison tartare.
The waiter pours two flutes of Kir Royal,
palms the bill, then impatiently stacks chairs
behind us. You lean back from the table
as if you were Isaac baring his chest
braced for a father’s judgment.