For years I’ve wondered how the girl appeared
who lives within my friend: her freckled face
so white and broad, her laugh so quick and weird,
her hair so thin, her lips so thick, the space
between her teeth so marked. A week ago
she showed me Polaroids begun to fade,
and now I catch upon the face I know
the tracks experience has overlaid.

And having met the girl behind the lines
those freckles camouflage, I can’t omit
to see her or to hear this afternoon
her speaking so religiously of signs
that when I question what in me won’t quit,
she lays the praising on my Virgo moon.