i keep trying to crawl into that photograph
of you in your uniform, of you in your
youth-prime, proud smiling on your mother’s
arm with the crinkly eyes of your future daughters.
after the flagship burned,
and the wheelhouse turned,
you became good at seeing angels;
yeah, you were all right.
when asked how you were doing,
you said, well, i’m alive.
and my mirror cells replied,
well, that’s every thing.