I wrap my hand
around the glass.
I am two again,
walking in Seattle
with my mother.
Do I really remember
walking up and down
all those stairs, or is it
just the aphoto
and her retelling of it
that I remember?
Why do I think of it now?
I raise the glass.
from the table.
Outside, the trees
are nearly bare.
Autumn is visiting.
I wonder why
the leaves on the tips
are last to go.
Or do they do that only here?
It rises a little more.
Why do we
speak to each other
like this,
in voices I don’t recognize.
Who is she, this woman,
lifting the glass?
The water
meets her lips
just as I think
how thirsty
I am.