Like Children

On Sundays I exist in the day and try not to hurt you. I tuck scraps

of your language underneath my skirt like an inappropriate film. I need

new visions of nighttime weather: my body flying over mountain ranges

tricked by pockets of light. It’s true: one day I might be

your widow. Your life now is migrating underneath swaths of silver sky. I have

not yet lost you: yes. I adore your statued face: fair. I never did witness

the summer you learned to walk, but often in dreams I am unfolding

your legs, giving you movement. Trying to help you like when I cook

you pasta, my whole body hushed as I sprinkle salt into tepid

water. I wish to be your god, to create for you oceans. I think

about maples, how every year they empty themselves out for winter. Certain

facts make me sad: the infidelity of the sparrows; the wilting of the purple flowers

in your vase. I am new to this life, you should know. I take walks

daily in pinkish light and watch as the neighborhood children learn to sing

in a square of the churchyard. Prior to sleep, I wear my old prom dress, too tight now

around my abdomen. I can’t bring myself to let it suffocate me. I’m like anybody else,

wrapping my legs thickly around a mirror and making myself weep. Still. You drip

honey into my coffee. We sprawl across your sheets

and sketch puppets over the cover of your green notebook.