familiar

raphael coronel

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It’s easy to forget
a face; you lose something

after being too familiar. We
forgot the ghost in that scene,

its crooked teeth on the TV
matching mine.

We had smaller hands
catching each other,

insects in the garden. Each
had a name for the day

they lived. I don’t remember
how you looked, so I took

pictures of everything small
and the neat insects pinned

on styrofoam, I’ll remember. I
remembered I covered my

eyes until the ghost left,
you asked for wine, a knife

greasy from the birthday cake,
crawling with ants. Why

do you look different? Light
a candle to keep them away

give me a name to the face
I’m seeing someone else
​
but she’s wearing your dress.