My family didn’t recognize me
when I knocked weakly on the door,
aspect hidden in the dark, repeating silently
names I wasn’t sure I could still pronounce.
But after relaxing to my presence at the table,
my wife extended her hand to squeeze my elbow
and dragged her gaze across my forehead
as if searching for the man who was secreted
beneath wig and face paint,
acting as my double.
My chair screaked back against the floor,
and I stood a frightened sentinel on the balcony,
turned from the glow of the kitchen. I blew smoke
from my cigarette over the fragrance of the garden
to cool the sweat and turmoil gathered on my lips.
I dug fingers deep into the bottom of my pocket,
rooted out beneath coins and shells the seeds
I carried from that muggy, jungle country
and tossed them underhand onto the soil
inside the shadows of the frangipani.
I wasn’t asked to help clean the dishes
or move the extra chair back to the hall.
But stepping across the threshold into the light,
I was led by my wrists toward the sitting room—
a circle formed of the rugs, lamps, and chairs
where we sat cross legged on the smooth,
cool hardwood boards, knees knocking shyly—
and my daughter blew from the candle
the flame she’d lit between the three of us.
