Ella B. Winters

The way you 

would disappear 

a coin behind my ear 

at birthday parties,

and later pull it out 

of my sleeve, children

gaping like guppies

in vacant delight. 

The time you ran out

of bread, so you 

packed a tin of tuna, 

still sealed, 

for my school lunch,

which I tried to open

by hitting it with a rock 

in the playground,

like starting a camp fire.

Or when you lost

me in the park

but didn't notice 

I was gone, and

a dogwalker found

me crying by the bins,

and walked around,

holding my snot-sticky

hand, until I spotted 

you in the distance.

And the last time

I saw you, and you

arrived an hour 

late, still shaking 

from the night

before, or that morning, 

or the past thirty years, 

and you walked 

right past me 

and didn't stop.