The writer

came and sat down next to me
addressed me as “Steve,” not “Stephen”
lifted me vertically from street to sill
showed me the undulating floor half-open inner door
didn’t stop
near her old house in Dublin, where
lemon yellow strings of curtain smash against blue brick
elbows propped up next to mine
in the middle of her Russian Week
hit me with her day after day after day
was the poorest person in the room
cycled out to Marino
that I’m alone in her old house
that I’ve never seen
that was derelict space
that I’ve never been to Dublin
that I’m waiting for my mother to come back
that my face detached like a white petal
and floated toward her
spoke because she needed to