I remember that highchair, not looking at it, but the view from it,
the objects swimming about the room (people as if under the ocean),
and if I try real hard I recall the sense of it being time to go,
to leave, the feeling of weightless suspension among stars, urgency
to land, the bright rush of blinding white light, the pull of gravity,
finally her face, eyes, hands, lips, voice and smell, the small of her
earlobe as she caresses me, holds my back steady, against her breast,
my tiny finger running the topographic world of her finger, so much
larger than mine, God all around, within everything, no border between
me and her and Him and Her and Me

Chagall 2020