You bloom in the air
when our father utters
the half-halted phrase of your name,
the exhalation of ha—
cut off by a quick revision to my name.
My man’s name.
You shimmer in pronouns,
in the half-said shhhh of she, in the red
edge of her slipping
into the sibilance of his.
When our father calls me sweetie or honey,
it’s not me he calls to
you (my lost)
you (my ghost)
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