I saw your face
in the post office
It was one of those
eight by elevens
with black lettering,
It was an old picture
as if your chin
had not grown up yet
and your hair
framed your cheeks
as if to say
I, too, am a visitor.
They spelled your name wrong –
there are two A’s in Isaac
and you looked
like you had been caught
wearing someone else’s skin –
the scar at your temple
was a faded moon,
crescent and grey at the corner
and I could tell
you had not slept
in years.