me, I suppose. You may call
it another world, but it’s me
when I’m not
here. Maybe it’s the one that didn’t
get this far. He still has hair long
and unbound, he is a vessel
of feathers. He never loved
the night’s opening, took all
the chances. Maybe he never
married or married endlessly,
taking into himself over and over.
I am exhausted by him. He has
answers for all of my rooms. He never
made his way to the top
of something large without thinking
himself still large. He never refers
to the dead because they don’t die there.
He has several daughters. Not just
the one, scared sometimes, limbs
and jubilant all the time. She doesn’t
ask him things he doesn’t know.
Maybe her questions are
easier for his comfort. Maybe he’s
made every question a hymnal
she can hum back to him. Or maybe
he lies, and only I can tell the difference.