Every Time I Blink

I didn’t see you’d grown so tall
until tonight, when I wear my heels
for your farewell dinner at Mario’s
and you still come up to my chin.

The clock plays tricks.
It has galloped to this night,
squeezed all your years
into the space of minutes.

You’re gloved in that dress I bought myself
in last year’s Monsoon sale,
and squirrelled in the wardrobe
for the perfect occasion.
It looks better on you.
I don’t remember when wearing my clothes
stopped being a game you played
on wet Sundays
clopping around in my shoes
six sizes too big.

Barefoot, you stand at the mirror,
gelling and sculpting,
and when you turn to tell me
how gorgeous I look, your eyes
don’t need to lift to mine.
I see a hundred faces I have known,
a kaleidoscope of yous,
six months old, two years,
seventeen.

Every time I blink
the kaleidoscope turns,
the pattern shifts,
and I glimpse
another facet of you.

You slide your feet into shoes
I haven’t seen before
and your arm into mine
Come on, you say,
I’m ready.

And I blink.

first published in a fine line, Spring 2020