you are like an old man who, thinking
he once saved a jar of starlight,
believes that he can sprinkle it
anytime. You look at me, our love
gone like a daughter we lost
to disease, who now sits each night
at our dinner table and refused
to be fed. We prop her up anyway
and coax silver spoons into her mouth.

I am like an old woman who has
saved all of her dresses convinced
they will come back in style. My
favorite a heartscarlet mini I wore
before we met. I have a photo of me
wearing it. I am a twist in a braid
of dancers on some ancient disco floor.

Most nights, I know I am not that
girl anymore, the girl who didn’t know
that soon she would stop dancing, marry
a dreamless man and wear the same
faded dress forever. Other nights,
I nudge foodless air into our invisible
daughter, watch you walk away
from the table, listen to you
in the next room, trying to thunk
the starlight out of an empty jar.