She wears sparkling indigo satin,
which deepens her hazel eyes.
She smells of cinnamon,
drops French words, quotes Keats,
with wrist flick emphasis,
bracelets tinkling.
I know by watching her
which utensils to use
as we eat first a golden soup,
then oysters. I mirror her.
All the while she tells me
of her travels, elephant rides,
hammocks in India, Mai Tais.
Gazing into her placid forehead,
I know she never fell in love
with a drug addict, never
subsisted on lentils and rice.
We can’t find the exact moment
when her life and mine splintered.
She pulls up her shirt,
and I reach for her flat stomach,
trace where her scar would be
if she were me.