Sea-Glass

it was right after your sister's fiancée
died. i drove to your house in
my dad's cadillac.
it was raining and by the time i got there,
i had the windshield wipers on full blast.
i parked up aways from your cul-de-sac in an
empty neighbor's drive.
my view was clear—i could see
straight into the window above your
washing machine

where you were standing
quietly folding laundry,
with that look on your face
that makes me break like
sea-glass.

you stood there
shirtless,
staring out into the black wet
night—as if you too
were crying from every pore

and your eyes fell upon a silver car
parked up aways in a
neighbor's drive;
and i could've sworn i saw
recognition in your eyes.