2010
this house is too large.
i rattle against the walls
like the only coin in a beggar’s tin cup,
my cheeks dented in like a lost tin can.
yours is too small even for the two of you.
i pray your husband never sprouts corners,
grows flat and square.
the baby is coming in august.
where will he sleep?
2005-2008
the night is crammed up against our ribs,
asleep, you catch at my hair and tremble
“where are you?”
“where are you?”
“where are you?”
2009
you went north with a white cat.
i went west with a box of books.
do you remember the day,
before you left, we swam
in the pond in our clothes?
i knotted my skirt up around my waist;
you kept your legs a secret.
2010
i have seen the scars.
i have seen your knees.
we will farm the breeze, catch it in nets streaming with air.
we will weave blankets out of the wind,
yellow for me, orange for you, green for your husband,
and for the baby: blue.
