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.