Illusion and Crème Caramel

Before you enter my home
don’t wake me with a warning.
I am not in the habit of getting ready.
My habits are scrawny and unused.

Before you enter the room
don’t forewarn me with quiet footsteps.

In my sleep even footsteps go unheard.
And a soft knock is no sign of permission.

Before you leave, don’t lock anything.
I keep no keys to a slammed-shut illusion.

Now, at last, I woke to the sound
or to its echo — a fallen tear.

The water spilled its wetness by the door.
A door unlocked, and closed.

I bathed in it. And on bare feet
I wandered off into the garden.

The salt dried on my face and body
as I lay stretched beneath the setting sun

and white, tart, crunchy and motionless
I sank deep into the recipe for crème caramel.