Pacific Time by Sharon Jan
You were two and three and
four and five in this room.
When the window stretched
dark from floor to ceiling gleamed
against the yellowed light of the lamp,
your mother would come in
run her cool fingers
through your still-damp hair.
Then she would do the same thing
with your brother, who lay on a bed
pushed up next to yours, so that
when he slept with shadows
on his lids, face close enough
to put your cheeks on the crack between the two beds
large like two nations
you could imagine
your hearts in the same place.
