Twice you touched
the table: first, to wipe
the cornbread crumbs
you left during dinner;
second, to rest
your head when you fell
because sober gravity
was the only thing holding

you up. Feather matches
lit your face when you saw
how little cereal was left
in your bowl. Your hazel
eyes reflected shame
when we smelled the spiked
milk. Once you took me

to see the ambered maple
leaves falling to the geese
in Stratford; I saw your
childhood in the Avon River:
gone along with your mother.
Maybe you see her in your
bottles, like I see you in my
freckled hand. The you

I see is ten years younger,
still wearing the argyle
sweater I stole from the stale
stock of your closet. Still
with an interest in my
cartoon doodles and half-
baked oatmeal cookies. Still
sipping only one glass at dinner.