Second Face at the Fold

You had my mother's left eyebrow.

That was the first thing I noticed,
because I had been taught
to look for the part that repeats.

The route camera gave us
both the same grey label.
Some clerk has already joined
our names with a slash.

I wanted to ask what you remembered
of the little house at the reservoir.
I wanted to ask if your father
also sang the wrong words
to the station hymn.

Then you stepped back
when I stepped forward.

I had mistaken a resemblance
for a door.

The medic asked if she could record
our voices for the route card.
You said no.
I said not today.

The fold made its low, dry sound.
The people behind us were counting
their minutes aloud.

The screen kept us
side by side.
You covered your name
with one finger.
I could have saved that frame
before you turned.

Instead I gave you the card
with my number on it.

You folded it once
and put it away.