half-perceived

On my study floor, the books were piled high.
You stepped over them, smiling, as you came in
to kiss me goodnight. The dog growled deep in

her throat. She loved me alone. You scowled at
the dog, then looked at me, the lit screen, the
stacked pages--and smiled. It would be hours

before I would slip into bed beside you, still
thinking about my book on life and death.
You always kissed me like that, late--

first pausing in the doorway. It was a ritual
you kept for years, begun after we'd settled in.
I remember our first night in the house--

I lingered in the room that would be my study. Bent
over my desk, arranging papers, I saw, in the corner
of my eye, a wavering figure in the doorway, half-perceived.

It frightened me then. Now I understand that it
came from the future, which has become the past. Now
I understand that it was you, smiling at me. You put out

your hand to ward off the bad dog, the mad guardian. She
growls again as I lift my face, distracted, still, for your late, tender kiss.

[Carol Muske-Dukes, 'Late Kiss,' from Sparrow]