Always, in my mind, I see this in black and white:
            A film noir, or a page from an old Vogue.
So, light is there, but only vaguely, consisting of that which
            gathers toward morning, a slim moon.
The kitchen, shrouded in its cleanliness, contains them
            and the small table at which they sit:
My mother, clothed in her white wrapper, leans
            toward my father, opposite her.
He is newly uniformed.  His recursive smile, the deep
            angles of his face, gather in a jack-light.
Light, also, contains their hands:
            White nesting birds, alert and synchronous.
Likewise, at the exit door, the wings of their bodies
            beat together.
This is the last time I will see them in this way,
            mated for life.