Two Tiles

The moment was a freshly minted dime,

so perfect, with each bright sandwich

ridge still sharp. You held your

sister’s son and stood, enchanted

by him, stood with him directly

in front of me, no more than two

tiles away. Your eyes were the

bright blue strip encased inside

a marble—light and slightly green—

and etched as they were from

your deep tan by the dark liner,

suggested acute focus which you

trained on the tiny baby, standing

in front of me, your lion mane of

pool-chlorine curled hair, his stuffed

as sausage arms, the cascade chain reaction

within me ongoing, you still

standing in front of me, less than two

tiles away, smelling his hair, telling

me that I should smell his hair and

holding him, standing in front of me,

less than two tiles away, just as I

had seen your sister hold him and stand

in front of her husband, earlier.

--RFRY, v2 on 02 Jul 06

This is a version of Two Tiles.