The Intimacy of Being Seen

—A Triptych of Ovillejos

I. The Mirror

What does morning uncover there?

Bare.

What does the looking glass conceal?

What’s real.

What does my gaze return to?

You.

The mirror gives us what it can—

two bodies neither young nor planned,

her breasts turning toward my hand—

bare, what’s real, you.

II. The Years

What silver threads above her ear?

A year.

What does my thumb find at her side?

A tide.

What does her skin remember still?

My touch.

Not youth, but all that we have worn:

the small inscriptions time has drawn,

each one familiar as the dawn—

a year, a tide, my touch.

III. The Knowing

What happens when she closes her eyes?

She knows.

What does her breathing teach my own?

Come home.

What boundary remains between?

So thin.

No mirror can record this way

two bodies learning what to say;

I touch the places words betray—

she knows, come home, so thin.