Now You See Me

The neighbor whose daughter last week
sold me thin mints and caramel delights
asks Where's your friend? I haven't
seen her around lately. Before
I answer: Are we (is she) speaking

code? When I answer, friend
will mean lover. When I say partner,
I mean lover. Girlfriend means lover. A date
is a fruit that is full of sunlight, thick
with sweetness. I want

to ripen in full sun. Let me
put on my magic cloak, take it off.
Now you see me. On the airplane
the stewardess can't quite put

her finger on it: Sisters? Cousins?
She comes back with an extra bag of peanuts.
There's something... have I met you
before? No. No. And yes—

At the credit union: Elizabeth, Lisa
on the joint account. On the title
to the house. Catalogues
and address labels come unsolicited
with an amalgam of our names. But

we don't kiss at the front door. Don't shout sweetheart
down the street. Don't flaunt and so can't
resent it when we're invisible here. Neighbor,

if you put on the glasses provided
with this poem, the neon
above our garage will be hard to miss. Now
you see us. And look, there are others,
houses all around you lighting up.

Copyright © 2007 Elizabeth Bradfield All rights reserved
from Meridian
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission