My daughter was born at 4:34 am,
the same minute I was born
26 years,
one month,
and 26 days before.
I felt the warm, slippery crown of her skull
with my fingers
in the last moments we were one being,
and then she spilled out of me
the way something spills from a can
when the suction is broken.
She did not cry,
did not make one small sound,
but her arms flew to the air,
and I thought,
how wonderful it would be if we could all remember
that first instance of ecstatic release
having only known darkness,
a folded existence.
She was handed to me
like a tea set wrapped in a sweatshirt,
mindfully, delicately,
and her placement in my arms
came with the recognition
that my life now had a before
and an after.
There was no rush of love,
as they say,
just the momentous peace
in having met this stranger
who I had loved without knowing
from the moment she left her father
in frantic search
of her biological counterpart,
her soul joining itself.

I remember tiptoeing downstairs
at 8 years old
and watching Titanic with my parents
when I couldn’t sleep.
I remember
the acrid taste of the popcorn
that I left in the microwave too long,
the cocoon of my parents love
and our old green sofa.
And yet the details of my daughter’s birth,
the hours of exquisite pain
and visceral longing,
my memory has failed to keep.
My heart remembers
what my brain does not.
My body holds the blood memory of her.

There is a list of things I know I will forget.
The list is ever growing.
The list is endless.
The size and shape of her finger nails,
the pillowiness of the tops of  her feet.
How she looks up at me from a tangle of blankets
as I kiss my hand and bring it to her forehead,
repeating the phrase, I love you,
despite its inadequacy.
The way she appraises every stone in the gravel driveway
as if it were a planet of its own.
A trip we took to the beach
when she ran her fingers through sand for the first time.
So many first times.

If I weren’t her mother
I would choose to be the wrinkle in her elbow
or the gap between her teeth.
I would settle for a bird
that crosses the sky above her, igniting
if only for the briefest of moments,
something like pure wonder.

What I will remember is the endless love.

In her purple snowsuit, a child kneels in a foot of fresh powder,
carefully shaping a snowball in her purple mittened hands.  
See the world through her eyes.
Each snowflake a white dream.
Tucked inside a snow globe,
atop a frozen cotton blanket
neatly placed on the lawn while you were asleep,
embedded with microscopic diamonds
that disappear when you single them out with curious eyes.  
It is important that you get the shape of the snowball right,
so take your time
and mold it between your palms like a ball of clay.  
It is important
because the snowball can be anything you want it to be,
like the embryo of a snowman.  
Ammo to use in a long anticipated battle
or the start of a fortress.  
A snow cone, if you can sneak maple syrup from inside.  
Branches hang low with their sacred white burden.  
The world has become black and white.
And then a cardinal dips into view.  
Dashing above a white sea
towards the comfort of an unseen nest,
nearby perhaps, or miles distant.
For a moment
the only color you know is red
and nothing was ever so beautiful.  
The world is endless beauty.

In the spaces between, I love you best.
The vastness between particles, the distances.

What a gift it would be to unlearn time
as it drips slowly from a broken faucet.
This morning I performed the ritual of your 4am diaper change
and when you smiled up at me
I thought of a garden growing inside of you,
the bloom of a hundred crocuses and lupines and marigolds
and the twisting of Swedish vines
and tomatoes beginning to turn red.
Someday I will make your bed with fresh sheets
when you come home for Thanksgiving,
I will stock our fridge with your favorite foods
and make sure the house is clean.
I will try to be the perfect hostess for you
like I once was.
My moon and back.

I didn't know you were unhappy.
Somewhere
when the dishes sat drying in their rack
and the baby fell asleep,
like the rats neglected in their cage
I overlooked it.
Wrapped in weighted folds
of sleep deprivation,
headlights not yet through the fog.

One month from today could be
your birthday.
In one month we could meet each other
for the first time.
Maybe in one month
I will be on all fours like an animal
and I’ll scream you into the world
and you’ll stop being just a dream.
You are a product of me,
within me.
You are mine
You are not mine
You will always be mine.
Through ripened flesh
and viscera you will unfold,
purple and milky,
bursting through a darkness,
limbs released into your father’s arms,
squeezed and wrinkled,
bright with pain,
having to relearn what it means
to be alive.

Strangers at the bar
I polish glasses with care
No one knows my name

Keep an eye out for mountain lions
is the latest,
down by the pond where the children catch snakes
and what about your husband quitting his job?
He hated it and what about what you hate?
Roommate smoking ******* cigarettes inside, half the night coughing
through paper thin walls
you can’t even ******* in peace.
Peace is a friend you have lost touch with because you are too busy.
Two jobs.
Feet still sore when you get up four times a night to ***.
The new place doesn’t allow pets.
Or smoking.
The rats still make you smile
there’s always the rats.
And feeling like a lava lamp when the baby moves.
Still alive for now.
Why cry?
No one can hear you but the baby probably can.
Listen to the wind in the aspens instead.
Beautifully sad sound.
Already their color is changing
you
have always been changing  
and still you are the little girl who used to leave messages for her cat on an answering machine.
That poor cat died a long time ago.
You’ve missed every cat who has died.
What if your baby dies?
Sometimes
your ******* leak.
THAT is a sign of life.
Life means you have to do another load of laundry.
Separating whites and colors is no longer necessary.
You haven’t heard from your husband today.
He says he’s having a lot of fun at his new restaurant.
Hope so
you’re not bitter
but how can you laugh with him in bed if he works nights?
***** it.
One glass of red wine.
Go on lots of walks.
Drink lots of water.
Soon your baby will be born.

I am eleven, a child
of recent divorce.
(I do know what this means and I do not)
Outside the exotic bird store
I sit with my father and sisters,
savouring the dewy air of a summer night,
the melting sugar on my tongue.  
Instinctively
I turn my head towards the smell of tobacco
and find myself facing the group of teenagers
casually huddled outside a radioshack.  
Elegant blue smoke coils and twists above their heads
and becomes a cloud around them
like an idea that comes in focus
for the moment before it slips into the ether of subconscious.  
I am standing with them
then.  
Ice cream cone replaced by cigarette
careful braids replaced by loose ponytail.  
A freedom I have never felt before.  
And the terror of the realization
that I cannot be caught
not really
not anymore.  
I did not know exhilaration and sadness
could be felt together and it occurs to me
as it will in moments such as these,
that language cannot always be used to untangle a feeling.

To my little one who pushes me from the inside out:
because of you
my eyes see new colors.  
Funny how
there are perhaps as many nuances of love
as there are shades of green in a summer forest
and there is only the word “love.”
Sadness too.  
Like the sadness of giving up
something you didn’t know you wanted.  
That was you.
Was you.
You occupy me.  
Within and without.  
My feet and my heart ache.
I watch how people's’ eyes are drawn to my stomach.  
Celebrating roundness
where there was once flatness
and that was once celebrated
is also a funny thing.  
I do want to laugh and it is easy to.  
Crying is also easy.  
Sometimes they are indistinguishable  
or
one becomes the other.  
Becoming.  
If that is what I am doing
how is it different
from what I have been doing my whole life?

My baby moves in jumps and flutters inside me,
like the barn swallows that make nests
of dirt and twigs outside the restaurant.
Yesterday they disappeared
and I learned that a maintenance man came and hosed them down.  
Tragic, he said.
But necessary.  
Too much bird ****.  
When I got pregnant
it felt like waking up at the top of a roller coaster.
And then an engagement.  
Somehow
this is how my life is going
and somehow it does not feel like cliche.
Ask as many what-ifs as you want
but there is just a single trajectory.
Even though you have to fall asleep one day
before waking in the next.
Moving through concentric circles and trying to find the center.
Biology is happening
in a part of me that I am still getting to know.  
Kaleidoscoping.
She was once the size of a grape
but now I read she can blink her eyelids.
She is also not like the barn swallows.

Two boys and a dog walk to the river
on the cusp of manhood,
each finishing the last half of a cigarette.
Schooling and lovers
and familial diagnoses left behind them
where they parked their car.
Above them,
the colorless and colorful expanse
of uncertain futures and Colorado sky.
The dog will die in six years
and what then?
How many years will they spend
walking away
and how many times will they return?
Dirt will collect beneath their heals
and there will be other dogs.
A child strapped to ones’s back
and another running along beside
with scraped knees
and an open heart.
The same brand of tobacco
burning between their fingers
and miles of river to be re-explored.

It’s quiet in the mud season.
Off season travelors dine around the six-sided fireplace
discussing this week’s school shooting
and celebrating anniversaries, 40th birhdays.
Their burgers are sometimes overcooked and their wine is overpriced, but
they are happy.
They are far enough away
from the heartbreak of Monday
and imaginary deadlines
and close enough to the pasture
to feel the steam of the horses’ breath
in their outstretched hands.
One compliments my dress
and I touch my belly instinctively.
Her smile reminds me of my mother’s.

A thunder storm rolled through the valley
not too long ago.
I couldn’t remember the last time I heard thunder.
I stood outside in the rain
and closed my eyes
and felt myself getting smaller
with each flash of lightening
as if I were going back in time,
until Drew told me to come inside.

I laughed as he pulled me through the door
and kissed him deeply on the mouth
until he was laughing too, and wet,
and we made love before I had to go to the restaurant
and I felt our baby move for the first time.
As I walked to my car through the mist,
nostalgia found its way into my pores.
All that dampness in the air.

I delight in the way you hold me
my dear
and the way you make me laugh,
better than any drug.
And the surface of your skin,
nothing has ever felt so smooth.
Banalities seem not so banal
through the kaleidoscope lens of our love.
We shop for groceries
like pirates searching for treasure.
It's our secret
and no cannon can penetrate the planks
of our ship.

But I have loved others before
and may love another again.
For even ships are subject to decay
with the changing of the tides.
And my heart has many chambers.

Usher in
a long taffeta skirt,
pearl earrings and delicate hands.
Horn-rimmed glasses
on the man you saw at the grocery store.
Children still in their winter boots,
a frozen sunset glowing on round cheeks.
Smile at them,
agree with them.
Yes it's a cold one out there.
The fire laughs behind you.
Tea and memories of home
warm your throat.
Is this where you thought you'd be?
Ask yourself.
Write the answer on a piece of paper,
crumple it in your fist
and throw it in the flames.
Fuel.
Thank everyone for coming.

Count the times and ways and places.
Tie knots in a string of pearls
coiled around your finger
and begin to see the bud
of something new.
A bonfire on the Fourth of July
when your hands were strangers.
Hurried trips to the grocery store.
Tie-dyed tshirts and handfuls of popcorn.
Laughing on acid and
twisting my ****** rings in the dark.
Fistfuls of thick dark hair
and cigarette
and cigarette.
Writing a poem at 6am
to forget the warm emptiness
hidden in my duvet cover.
So many stories embellished
and coats set across a leather chair.
Rolling the fringes of the terry coat
that looks far lovelier
draped over your shoulders.
Cracks and fissures
from housekeeping chemicals.
Fists of frustration.
The fading burns from melted sugar.
Small reminders.
Kindness.
Strength and insecurity
and dancing  
and spelling love across my back.
And other things we do with our hands.

It is far too painful
hurting someone you love deeply.
Especially when it is you.

I am picking up my pencil
at 6:10 am
to you
to say my bed feels lonely without you
and you looked **** fine
going to work in my Led Zeppelin shirt.
There are still crumbs on my floor
from the enormous bag of popcorn
we shared in handfuls
making nothing but a small dent
as we worked our way closer
with each bit of laughter
and sweep of a hand across a lower back.
Colors seem brighter this morning
and we both know why babe.
I don't know what more to say
but for today
I am yours.

I remember sitting by the river smoking with Tommy.
The snow melt had already carved a new pathway through the bank.
He talked about his friend who was moving to town, to work with us.
You were best friends since middle school, he told me.
Somehow I remember that conversation but I don't remember meeting you.
And here I am, writing poetry to forget how much I  need you.

You fill spaces in my head
I did not know existed.
Maybe you are the gyri and sulci themselves.
I was looking for something else
I thought I could see clearly
and that is the worst way to find love.
Somehow you found your way to me.
I made a home beneath your bones
without the proper tools
and before I could look up you were there
needing me too.

Small and quiet, fluorescent,
the room holds anonymous faces.
People waiting for flu medicine,
hopes and fears and minor concerns about rashes
that we thought would go away.
Frequent urination
a tremor in your left hand.
A business man closes his eyes and kneads his brow.
He sits tensely in a blue upholstered chair
and smiles at me when he catches me looking.
Ruffling pages in magazines
like a moth's wings.
No mayo, rye bread, a nurse says.
Tapping her lavender acrylics
to music just low enough not to recognize.
Mind on shuffle, dreams achieved and
failed dreams of medical school,
little ones tripping and laughing out of double doors,
lining up to be whisked away in Suburbans or Geos,
carrot sticks uneaten at the bottom of a backpack.
A doctor sets a clipboard in front of her
and words are hastily typed into a computer.
And I wait for her to call my name.

There's half a bottle of wine the fridge
and a lifetime of worry in my bones.
I'm being dramatic, maybe, surely
when there's all those kids
starving over there in Africa.
My sister studied great whites there
without a college degree.
What did I want when I was eighteen?
We are all so sure, aren't we.
I lost my motivation
as easily as a senile old man loses his shoe.
It is there, somewhere, I know it.
And the longer I look
the more frantic I become.
And there are days when not caring
seems okay.
They shouldn't tell us
we can all become doctors
and home owners, actors,
professional chefs, humanitarians.
I wished for something I didn't know
I didn't want.
And what do I wish for now
but a happiness that exists
at the end of a dog's leash.
Is mindfulness or oblivion a better choice?
The answer is not at the bottom of a bottle
but in this case
it is only half full
so what is the harm.

Fell in love again.
It was beautiful I suppose.
Wild at the very least.
He's gone now but my heart remembers.
He made me dance
and that's all there was to it.

Walked to the river
through a barbed wire fence and down
a game trail. Yesterday in a bathing suit,
today boots, a wind breaker.
Yesterday, you on my mind.
Today, you on my mind.
Forgetting us slowly.

She thinks about men often.
The way some people think about death.
Doing dishes,
falling asleep wrapped in a comforter somebody gave her.
One in particular, this town
reminds her of him.
Hazel eyes, pools of honey, a field glowing,
cooling in the sunset.
She knew of his departure before
she knew she wanted to kiss his clean mouth.
And still
there was pain, exquisite
at the heart of things.
Laughter on clear winter nights,
warming her hands beneath his arms.
She watches wildflowers begin to bloom
in the meadow and feels
the whisper of him inside her.

She looks at him and wonders if
his long nose and fox eyes exist only for her.
Lovers made her laugh once.
She felt what it was like to touch the stars and share
secrets among frozen vegetables, dancing to
a song that was neither the singing nor the singer.
She thought she understood why the sun rose
in the east, why at a certain degree water forms crystals.
She thought she knew how to hold on and how to let go.
An ego death, a budding,
something so new it was like explaining
orange to a blind man.
His clean hands on the ridge of her spine,
trying to describe him with her fingers, silence exploding
in her, honey burning her tongue.
A bird can only see the world below her nest until
she discovers she has wings.

"I'm just worried about you after I leave"
He lifted his eyes, hazel, wolf-like, only after he spoke.

She laughed,
curling her bare legs beneath her on his bed, feeling
her wetness. "Don't worry about me"
she said.
"Come here"

He crawled over to her and they lay
holding each other atop the blankets.
She ran her tongue along his back to taste him,
knowing she could never say what she wanted to.

Instead - "I'm just happy to have known you"
whispered into tufts of his blond hair.

Slide into bed -
ripped t-shirt and cute little thong covering my ***,
bare-legged.
He says
You should shave.

Boy, as if my body was made for you,
carved from your desire and not by puberty.
Boy, I bleed
but I don't bleed for you.

I walk into an empty room
and your presence leaks from every pore,
unwinds itself from the fibers of the bleach spotted carpet,
leaps up from the wicker trash can you left behind,
screams at me in the pump-swish of the ceiling fan.
This room - what's left of us now.
Your truck is still in the driveway but
it already feels like you are gone.
This room is us now
and I want to beat the walls for its emptiness.
I didn't mean to fall in love
but now the sun only rises and sets for you.

I lie on the floor
atop our skin cells and fallen strands of hair
that are surely trapped beneath me,
only to disintigrate into my purest essential particles,
protected from the ecstatic pain of love.

On the red eye,
eyes red,
heavy with sleep that doesn't come.
Consciousness fades out, fades in,
bobs up and down
though I crave submersion,
surrender,
a letting go in a sense.

My wish is simple.

That,
if only sleep will find me,
cradle me gently in its sweet ether,
as my jaw slackens and my head rolls onto my shoulder,
I will only dream of you.

Sometimes, despite your reservations
and in contrast to your sanity,
when a man you've admired
squeezes your thigh as he helps you onto a horse,
and makes eye contact with you
as he strums the guitar,
and tells you he's been waiting for this since he was nineteen,
you have to **** him.

I miss your voice in my ears.
I miss your eyes on my eyes.
I miss your breath on my neck.

I feel in haiku
folded neatly in my mind
The rest is too much

Imperfect, strong hands
Your guitar speaks for itself
Your voice carries me

Dismount from horses
Another sip of whiskey
A smile paints your eyes

Red dust from the trail
plays in valleys through your hands
My heart remembers

Maybe
if I can capture you on paper,
I can keep you.

You see,
I had hoped for the memory of you
to fade with my summer tan
but now I find myself greedy,
indulging in thoughts of you like a child sneaking chocolates.

I am thinking of you
sitting with me on a lumpy twin bed,
and wanting so badly to memorize you.
I asked if your hair was course or fine.
You let me run my fingers deeply through it
and there was an aching and a hollowness in me,
knowing your palate preferred a more balanced plate.

I never had you.
But I did, didn't I?
Just for a paragraph, but that's alright
because it belongs to me.
Iis mine to take out and taste in spoonfuls
or in buckets, or to stifle in a wooden box,
but it will always seep through the tiny fractures
and spill onto the page
because
that is the power of memory and words.

I remember the happiest moments of my life,
cherry-picked, freeze-dried and
stored by my subconscious, round and shiny
like Christmas ***** where I can see myself,
distorted but still smiling,
freckles in the same places, me but not me,
moments where love overflows from cooking pots
on Thanksgiving
and the steam of family dysfunction
rises to the ceiling, peaks, dissipates,
and when I leave the kitchen for a seat at the kids' table
I forget it, and later
the smell is washed from my hair by a pair of caring hands,
perhaps not so caring
if they are my own, and I squeeze my eyes shut
so the soap won't get in
but it does sometimes and I don't cry and I feel
like a warrior, perpetually battling the unfair,
like why am I the one with glasses,
why can't you eat ice cream before dinner,
why do grownups get to stay up so late?
downstairs drinking wine and spilling stories,
moments from the beach that day, sand and salt
hidden in unlikely places, sticky fingers, joyful exhaustion,
golden laughter of seeing cousins,
dreams and seaweed tangled in my hair,
dyed pink in high school but only an inner layer,
a half-hearted rebellion,
maybe the hair equivalent of a post-it note saying
notice me! but please don't judge me.

Why should it make me sad,
to watch the wind move through the leaves
of an elm tree in late May,
a great green cloud against the bluest sky.

Or to smell the sun heat the asphalt,
and tiny globes of sweat and Coppertone on my skin -
the golden smell of summer,
of knees skinned and healed and skinned again,
of sun-faded flags,
red white and blue dancing mounted on neighbors' porches,
neatly folded and forgotten the rest of the year.

Or to sit in my backyard
in the receding light with what is left of the day,
and listen in utter longing to the katydids
humming their summer incantation.
And wish, that if I could only bottle the sound
as I once did the magic of fireflies,
that repairing loneliness was as easy as opening jar.

The clock's ticking and my
eyes are dry but
there's things to be done
there's bodies to be prepped
and files to be filed
and people are dying and living
all around me
at least there's still tea
in my thermos

I have stared at
the girl scout cookies
on my desk
for weeks and
never taken one
out of the box so
long they have
been there I
think I can smell
them through the
package

that is strength
today, I'll take it

Today I am happy
That's all I have to say
Even though
there are dishes in the sink
and my milk's gone bad

Today I was standing in my kitchen looking out the window at the bird feeder and I leaned forward enough so that my forehead lightly touched the glass.
I saw my breath fog the glass so I stepped back to avoid making a mess, watching the frosted moisture recede like a bulls-eye getting further and further away
and I sighed with relief, I don't know why, until I noticed my forehead
my body, had left a mark of its own.

I stared at the little greasy patch until I was compelled to bring my hand to my forehead, which was dry, or maybe felt that way because it matched the moisture of my hand,
but either way I didn't believe the mark on the glass even as I examined it, smudged it with my thumb.

And then I thought of finding my hair woven in the fibers of the sofa, in my cup of coffee, laced between the e and the f on the keyboard.
I thought of how each time I take a shower, before shutting off the water the last thing I do is to run my fingers through my hair,
and collect all the ones that have detached themselves from my hot scalp.
Sometimes I come away with one or two but often my hand is webbed with them and I collect them on the wall  where they stick so nicely because they are wet.
Looking at the coils of hair, bark and honey colored on the white tile
I imagine how many have escaped down the drain into the collective waste
where they will degrade in however many decades.

Oh, boredom
Oh, anti-muse that makes
my brain feel like pea soup,
not the kind of pea soup with bits of savory ham floating
beneath the surface like little treasures.
Really I enjoy pea soup but I'd rather
my brain not feel like food,
a most controversial subject.
Oh, but give me controversy,
be un-still my heart.
Give me a floor to sweep
a public figure to despise
a novel to write
give me someone to love.
Or else I am left listing dog breads alphabetically
and I always miss some of the b's because
there are so many:
basenji, Bernese mountain dog, is rarely found on a mountain,
bloodhound, Boston terrier, bouvier.
Or else I am left counting the shades of
green in a forest, too many to count once you
start paying attention.
As many as the number of days
it takes for a friend to become a lover,
as many as the number of traffic cones in the city of Boston.

So
My thoughts are consumed by you
man who I hardly know
man whose name sounds like a cartoon dinosaur
man who is twenty years my elder
man who likes the company of other men.

Man who plants vegetables and herbs in his backyard
whose brother died in an accident six years ago
man who wears wire-rimmed glasses
and keeps his pepper-flecked hair combed neatly in a part.

I hope you will forgive me for being so forward
because your name has no business rolling off my tongue
when I am driving alone in my car
and the thought of you has no right to cast a smile on my face
like a reflex
natural and involuntary.

But I couldn't go another day
without saying I am not in love with you but you make me feel
something.
A lukewarm sentiment, I know, but you are fire
rushing down my throat
and not filling me up
and leaving my heart wanting (more).

Man who is neither short nor tall, thin nor fat
who keeps surplus basil in his freezer
man whose face I imagine so often I can no longer see
man who my hands so badly want to touch
man who will never love me.

I just wanted to let you know.

A bleak day
and bleaker still
Rain pocks the pavement
and my windowsill

Come heavy winds tonight
they say
casting eerie shadows
as the trees will sway

The earth will shake
with thunder and doubt
But make no mistake
That's what life is about

Each storm brings the promise
of life and decay
You may die tomorrow
oh, but you're alive today

And when fear holds you
and darkness persists
please remember, my dear
that true love exists

How can it be
that your face isn't mine?
Why do I love
when the tree bears no fruit?
A glance, a few words
I am permitted, maybe
but to run my fingers through your peppered hair
would be such a lovely thing.

I think my heart would break
if I could hold you tightly
atop rumpled bedsheets in February sunlight
carved from my desire
drinking a cup of you
filling me up.
That would be such a lovely thing.

If I could glimpse the kaleidoscope
it would sustain me
knowing the sun will still set.

History, beaten empty and dry
brings a warning I cannot carry out
And I love you but it’s not enough to hold onto
screaming with no release until
my throat is sore and I have swallowed all our memories
but I am not full.

Dreams are tangled in your hair, shining
from the rims of your glasses
I see myself,
a blessing and a curse I am to keep
stuck in a bottle shattered by truth--
I am awake and I cannot see you when I try
to hear your voice, gravel
under my bear feet but so lovely
like a memory of summer.

You are so plain but I am lit up inside, flickering
like a flame
and its wax is running down.
I won’t love you forever but I’ll try to capture you
in my head
while we are still here, together
and kiss you between your eyes
in a memory that I conceived
but was never born.

Hand in hand
to an unknown land
that's where we must go.
Where a bee's sudden sting
is a wonderful thing
and the stars are always aglow.

Face to face
in our secret place
that's where I wish I could be.
Where poison can heal
and beauty is real
where birds kept in cages are free.

How I wish I could go
and then you would know
how deeply I love you my dear.
But a lie is a lie
and as hard as I try
a bee sting still hurts
and no number of words
Will help this bird fly from here.

A moment with you,
my dear,
is enough.
One sip of you fills my soul
but, oh, how I wish
I could drink the whole cup.

His *****-white sneakers tied in double knots
three strides down the sidewalk and he knows they are too small
He didn’t know that your feet could get fatter too but
oh that’s right
Emily’s feet had grown with each pregnancy
People tell him that’s a lot of kids
Four - no ****
He was on the track team in high school but he’s the wrong size now
Right size?
It’s women on billboards
oiled like seals
lips puckered to meet the side of a ***** bottle
in this city and every city in America
Emily had managed to stay fit and what a miracle that was
She is one of those women
who looks good - healthy
in her element even
with a runny-nosed child on her hip
and three hours of sleep
and no makeup
and snot smeared on the shoulder of her black tshirt
Flower of a woman
People ask him how does she do it?
By his male friends he’s told how lucky he is
but that wasn’t the word he was thinking of

He is working up a sweat now
He feels each foot land on the pavement with his whole body
He watches small dogs lift their legs, demurely
They relieve themselves on statues on the Comm Ave Mall
He feels like the figment of someone else’s imagination
He sees trees he could identify when he was a botany major
before he traded his VW for a minivan
Sweetgum, green ash, maple, linden, zelkova, Japanese pagoda
that one’s an elm
even his six-year-old knows what an elm is
New synapses formed
Genus and species replaced by numbers, meaningless
They only mean something if his client is getting paid
One day a paycheck, a bottle of champagne
Another
stress, Netflix for entertainment
He’s left his iphone on the kitchen counter
No missed calls or new text messages
No music on this run
Unfiltered thoughts where Led Zeppelin should be
He remembers next week is Lulu’s birthday
Peaches and cream little girl
who is never seen without bruises on her knobby bird’s legs
Kat, older, malleable, chose ballet
Lulu insists on football
She wants to get ***** and tackle boys
The first day of practice he was mildly horrified
when he realized she is the only female in the league
He loves watching the other teams’ faces when they learn they just played a girl
because it is impossible to tell under all the padding
until Lulu pulls off her helmet at the end of the game
slow motion
as she walks off the field
shaking out honey-colored hair
throwing a wink at her rivals
Players use last names only by some unspoken rule
But not her
she is still his Lulu
her closet filled with princess dresses and football jerseys