I looked for you riding the down escalator
on my way to the bargain table at Alexander’s
where you used to take me to find a dress
in a girl’s 10 chubby–but I’m no longer that size
and I could not find you
On some days your eyes turned green, other times hazel
like Salvador Dali had dusted your iris brown.
Some days you would not look at me, would not care to.
You believed in the silent treatment and I could not find you.
I wanted to find you at the Automat on 14th street
near the macaroni and cheese where you showed me
how to open a window by inserting a quarter into a slot.
But who am I kidding? The Automat is no longer there,
and I have no magic to open windows.
Bedtime you recited Hiawatha by Robert Louis Stevenson,
By the shores of Gitchee Gumee, by the shining Big-Sea-Water,
and as you spoke, fog rolled across my twin bed and whippoorwills
preened their feathers, called each other to come home.
I wanted to find you at the Museum of Natural History
behind the guard rail of the Tyrannosaurus Rex,
my eyes traced each curved rib up to the ceiling,
as tall as an apartment building.
You walked to the next room and I could not find you.
On Saturday, your cakes slept in our bed wrapped in covers,
silky beneath tenement kimonos, until they grew
and doubled in size, dressed with chocolate and nuts,
your hands painted white. I tried to find you.