In my kitchen, you place

blueberries on my cereal,

carefully, one by one.

You are wearing your

soft gray sweater,

your pearl earrings.

Behind you the teacups

on their rack are

winking in the sun.

I can’t stop looking at you.

It seems we’ve been here

forever, though you never

saw this kitchen—when

I wake up, it takes long

minutes for me to realize this.

I want to return to a

kitchen where you have

yet to die, where morning

stands still, where

your simplest gestures

are a currency, of love.