In the beginning of consciousness, I sat
with you at the Suffolk school playground

marble drain, we felt joy—not winning—not losing.
You, were present. Welcomed into the front room

to sit. I wanted your mind to film the glass deer,
crocheted covers; listen to the Jim Reeves 33 LP.

I did not see you race by me in your teens.
You pursued love, the thumping beat of love,

the likelihood of love removed from the mirror.
You drifted into the darkest corners. I found you

in the Deep South, writing again to exist, justify
your divergence, your culture. Your draft found

its family portrait in ink. I wanted to applaud you,
watch you wipe the bubbling frost of champagne

from your lips. You hid. You drafted a new love
in uniform, orders directing you to X Y Z locations.

There were no mirrors there. Love was sacrifice.
Searching, I found drafts in litter bins, where you

once were. Until now, finding you, I readied red snapper,
fried dumplings, and callaloo at the table, simmering.

There is fresh Guinness punch, mummy would make,
reminding me, I love you. All you needed was a mirror.

Reclining there, all you need now is, revise your last words.

Your draft will breathe no longer.