Each time I see you
I start talking
about my dead father.

It’s the day he died
two years ago.
It’s the day he was born

79 years ago.
It’s my birthday.
Why do I tell you that?

We’re lucky
to have lived this long.
You recognize my face—that’s all.

Or it’s some other woman’s face
you see in mine. Do you see
mine in hers?

I’m not much better.
I remember a seam
that divides your torso,

the waves crashing
in on themselves,
you swimming out and out and out.

But the words escape
down a pipe

into the Lethe.
I’ve got nothing.
I look for seam rippers

on the uptown F train.
I’m not really that violent
with my passion.