It's two in the morning and
Sweetened tea in a blue-glass cup
Is coming up the stairs to the attic
Where my father, years before
He met my mother, is awake
As always at two a.m. He notices
But mostly ignores me; spirits are
Nothing unusual to him. Lately
I've been joined by Irina, my great aunt
Who -- this is 1943 -- is recently dead.
Since I'm unborn the two of us
Are equal in this room. The rules require us both
To disappear just before the door opens
And the tea and my grandmother and,
Some nights, a piece of cake come in.
