Poems for Her

I know your name but not the one on your driver's license.

I woke before you and did nothing about it. The radiator ticked. Your shoulder rose and fell.

I know your tired. Not the kind that sleep fixes.

It's not the grand gestures. It's not the airport sprint, the boom box on the lawn.

My grandmother's kitchen had no recipe book. She measured everything

My mother's hands could find a fever through a forehead, could tell a melon's ripeness

You didn't bring flowers. You brought takeout and the correct opinion about the show I was watching.

There's a word for the way your coffee cup still sits on the second shelf where no one else would put it—

My sister knows the password to every secret I've owned since 1996,

This morning you stood at the mirror and cursed your hair with a creativity

My hands still set the table for two. Not every night—just Thursdays, when my hands forget

You are not the friend who arrives with flowers. You are the friend