CALL ME BELOVED

I cannot imagine not recognizing a loved one,
the familiar shapes and contours of the cheek
rendered by some misfire in the brain inconsequential,
the distinct colors in their eyes unintelligible.

in the story I heard, their relationship fell apart
and they let each other go. where once she
would wave and use hand signals so he could
pluck her face out of a crowd now she would
let him pass on by, and I wondered what
it would be like to be her – able to follow him around
completely incognito, to see him in the most
natural element.

and what about him? a more romantic part of me
believes he must recognize something in her, or
must have at some point, love wriggling it’s way
into the forefront of his consciousness, some whisper
in his head insisting “isn’t that her?”