Lazarus

He came into my room like a god
stepping out of a painting.

Back from the wind, he called to me
with a mouthful of crickets--

scent of ash and lilac rising
from his hair. I waited

for the night to wane
into years before reaching

for his hands, my finger tracing
the broken lines in his palm.

My shadow beneath his shadow
across the hardwood. And we danced

like that: father and son--
our bodies like a pair of legs

swaying
over a broken chair.