From downstairs there are heavy sobs –
from my bed arms length away,
hushed purrs

Before he goes
to sleep, he kneads the blankets –
I lie still, watching perfect
little paws making
their way to comfort but
            -- there is no way

to apologize
for scruffing his neck
scolding him for the death
of a snake who was only
hiding in its cage

to forgive
him for tearing apart
countless carpets, posters,
skin from the back of my hands
and now the heart of that woman downstairs
               --there is no way

to say cancer
or goodbye
without cringing

She knows
concrete – not the soft earth
of late April, finally thawing

She knows
the carefully groomed trees
decorating the sidewalk - not
a garden tousled with wind
savoring its first sip of sun

She knows not
fresh air or quiet - but
when the clouds
become heavy and burst

her bones ache
her bones know

Jorrah has been coloring
all day long sitting in
the grass – He brings me his
sheets of paper says he
has drawn all of his family members

On the papers are one hundred hearts
constructed with wobbly four-year-old hands
all the same color despite his
sixty-four crayons

my lips try to hold
the lingering taste

of your
love you, love you, farewell

cactus holding water
from a rainfall

that happens only once
each year

I am thinking Arizona

when you suggest
we start seeing other horizons

tumbleweeds where words should be

sandy tongue apologies

dehydrated and hallucinating

I mistook you for an oasis

The word trying
stumbles from your mouth
I wonder how long it has been rotting
on the back of your tongue

In the next sentence
the word sorry
tiptoes across your lips
tries to find sympathy
in my gaze

I am choking
just as you are
finally learning to speak

Trying
Sorry
No

Laurie says that in high school
people used to call her ocean
everything she did came in waves

she tells me that she never crashes in the right places
I want to tell her to crash on me
that my heart will be
nothing short of the perfect shore

I know that my beaches are covered in rocks
that have not yet softened to sand
so instead I warn her
I am too afraid to swim

text message to make me laugh
hot and sticky outside
I walk you to your work truck
you kiss me
the sun rises

hazelnut coffee
the leaves are changing
so is your mind
we share a bottle of beer
you kiss me
hung-over
the sun rises
so you close the blinds

hazelnut coffee
he adds sugar and cream
I think about calling you
instead I tell him
I just like to be alone
the sun rises
a little later than usual

hazelnut coffee
my bra is the only ornament
on your Christmas tree
I am thinking
about how good your hands are
at unwrapping
the sun rises
reflecting off the snow

hazelnut coffee
January like a blanket
I drive to find your arms
we watch too much TV
but I never think
to say I hate TV
and I love you
remembering that I like
hazelnut coffee and sun rises

Breathing in deep
where I am
on an exhale
I find myself
in warrior pose

but I am thinking
about us
shavasana
on your new carpet

I wish I was
flexible enough to play limbo
with your past and win

Instead I struggle
for balance so
when the instructor calls for
warrior three

I collapse into child’s pose
I collapse into your memory

The kitchen is quiet
dust visibly swims
in the sunlight

I pour a cup of coffee
and start constructing
a to-do list for the day

I finish my cup of coffee
in the bottom of the mug
a dead silverfish

He stares out the smudged window
nose nearly kissing the glass
gaze committed to the tawny rabbit
who sits idly by the shed

He whimpers
fur rising on his back
turns his pleading eyes to me
as if to say

*Mama, I want to play
who cares that it’s raining?