Casi’s Face

Sometimes, I take your features for granted,
the constant shape of your eyes.

When you were born, everyone said you looked
more like your father, though I insisted your chin was mine.

Tonight while we wait for the macaroni to soften,
we dance in the kitchen to the symphony of a priest.

As I recuperate from an ungraceful spin —
a second stilled in the light of your face —

I see me, but taller; me but prettier,
and with your father’s chin.