Frozen in a block of blue
you see yourself preserved
orbiting the earth
holding an invisible string
to us, your kin.
You shine at night,
an astronaut of love.
From your sickbed, you ask me
with smiling eyes
blinking back the sting
if this story is insane
and I shake my head.
Eight years later your metaphor returns
like the man in orbit
with redoubled significance
circles drawn
around a shared center.
The age rings of a tree
sing like vinyl
if you let a needle
skim their grooves.
Our record player spins
a gravelly voice across the room.
“It’s so hard to tell where I end
and my father begins…”
I look down at my hands, your hands
writing these words.
The shape of our fingers
and their distinctive prints
legacy of skin and ink.