celia

My husband never called me his wife to my face

But it was clear enough to see when he came loping in

The room filled with the lowering sun and saw me

He would fetch up against the patinaed drawers, he would

Hold my hair up in those high lights and hang it between

Us like wet linens on a clothesline, and say, Celia —

The sun is leaving your silhouette on these white sheets

The sun was in his eyes when he examined my hair blind

-s casting high lights on it and we could hardly make out

Where the other person ended and the sunlight began

Behind them — “Celia” — and the lowering sun glossed over the scene

Brilliantining and blanching the chest, the drawers, Celia —

He would have loved the sight of me — “Celia!” — if he could

Only see me through the linens, with no sense for saying, Celia!