Your scars form marks
along your torso, cut right under the
left nipple and over towards your right.
At night, you dream that your mother
still calls you your daughter, and not the son
she denies she has. I wake with you inside
my arms, dry the bed sheets
of tears and make you tea.
We count the leaves. Read them like our
grandmothers used to: A broom and a pair of dice
inside your chamomile. And in mine? A ladder
reaching from your past in kitten shoes
and mini-skirts towards the future
in tuxedos and bow ties for our wedding.
You smile & we go back to sleep. In the dark
my hands find your scars and I whisper your name
(Jacob, Jacob, Jacob)
until morning comes again.