They pretend not to see each other
undress

in the hazy light of the nightbulb.
He’s seen her act

a thousand times before,
and yet

there’s something fascinating
about the sadness,

the way
this next part unfolds:

she folds
his shirt, pouring into it

a memory of them, a hair,
has to stop,

set a hand
on the chest

of drawers, turn
to look at him

and reset herself.
Slavonic Dances

stir the air,
step-parents to the part

inside
she has forgotten

for now.
There is no doubt—

it is his mother
standing in the frothy light.

–E.C. Belli,
plein jeu
(Accents Publishing)