we do not know the exact day our son stopped aging.

by age
I mean
he has seen
the ghost
he’s envisioned.

–

by doctors I mean anyone we see on purpose.

by money I mean the money we made
in those years
that didn’t
move.

–

at forty
cutting oneself
with oneself
is not
****.

–

three years in, our daughter lies about what she is eating. asks

that we read to her
as she has
forgotten.

when pregnant, she says she has something to tell us.

–

I am not the life I wanted.

–

by tell I mean she says nothing.

–

we recognize the toy soldier as the last gift

meant our son
was normal.

–

the soldier has gotten older
and is obviously
sick. from the same set

we look for the medic.

–

no.

–

I take the soldier in my hands then pass him, alien bird, to my wife. he coughs once and tries to raise his hand but the weight of the gun is too much. my wife says: how sweet.

this night, our old bodies, our coughing soldier on the nightstand. we kiss and the sounds come from our teeth. I think about the tooth fairy, about not being rich. how we can afford

but probably not find
a coffin
that small.