Mirror, Cracked

My eyes rove the terrain
of you, my home country
discovered when the world was new
and we celebrated our founding

I cannot look at your hands
without feeling them on my skin,
a violin played by a master
pulling notes from the void

I breathe your scent
and think of orchids,
I hold your hands
knowing the souls of roots

That was then, this is now,
in the evening of our days,
I kiss your neck, the taste
of tricyclics in your sweat

And your eyes, blankness
on and off like a switch,
Ghosts in the mirror
pleading for your return.