but I miss myself, myself, which time,
as if it were waves
crashing against
the shore, has drifted
out to sea.
I want to touch it
on the arm.
I want to talk to it.
Only memory, dim to me now
although is, can get to it.
I can only smile to it
at how it played piko
or chomped jute little girls,
its playmates, and it
steamed in a tin,
how it climbed a tree
and it couldn’t know
how to get down,
how it preferred brown
sugar, as it would take
it in its rice,
to adobo for its dinner,
how it was taken sick,
how it first met
and talked to Santa.
It tends to get lost but remains within.
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