Here you are on a small screen, unchanged
by the camera you know is always there,
always yourself. You never shift
or tilt your head that way
the camera expects you to.
This is how you are, unposed.
This is who you are,
seven years ago, or five, or three,
and you will always be
as young as this.
Here you speak to me,
reach across the camera,
your voice drowned out
by rustling sheets
and then the screen is bleached
white linen
and then the sound is an exclamation,
and then the sound is someone laughing
