In the sullen light of an inauspicious day,
I wake knowing the same story will be told
once more just as it was told yesterday.

Waking to dress, eat, and work,
strong women raising children without
fathers who think it enough to visit

while kitchens are empty of the warmth of old stories
stories of how love survived various hardships
stories conveyed by a glance and smile;

love is found in the curl of the hair on his chest
twirled between her fingers
the warmth of his legs against the cold of her toes
the matching of the rhythm of breath
at the end of another
inauspicious day.