Suppose you find yourself in the middle of a flood.
Someone remarks, But water is good for the plants,

sounding exactly  like your mother's cousin, Irma.
That very instant —some fifteen years dead—

she's back on board. Even those we barely knew
gate-crash, reappear in a gesture, their ability

to memorize telephone numbers, an allergy to cats.
They inhabit our rooms and their traits become ours

to discover in a stutter, a wink, a double-jointed finger,
the curvature of a spine. When my left hand thrums

the table like a keyboard, we think of Uncle Abner. He drove
us crazy. Today, my dear, I look for you in our son—

in his gait, how he favors his right leg, folds the newspaper
in three. I study my daughter when she runs her hands

through her hair exactly as you did, throws back her head,
and cackles at her own jokes.


From Walking Backward (Kelsay Books, 2019).
Used with permission.