The sun creeps through two small windows where the wall and
ceiling meet, small panels of light begin their saunter towards us
on the couch.
You’ve rolled over towards me in your sleep, and our legs are tangled.
Hot breath on my neck and chest, but it feels good. I’m cold.
I hear bustling and business upstairs, the sound of pots and pans pinging
and crashing together.
You contract briefly, and then extend your arms and legs like morning glories in spring,
a sort of early morning développé:
Oh my gosh, you say, I am so thirsty, rubbing your thumbs on your temples,
cradling your forehead in your fingers.
Rising from the auburn leather sofa, we approach the stairs
and have a hearty, stale laugh together before venturing upstairs.
At the top, your mother’s red kitchen is alive:
Peppers and onions sauté in a pan on the stove. She stirs eggs in an orange ceramic bowl.
Your father reads the newspaper, squinting even through his glasses. Your younger sister paces the hardwood clutching one single, black combat style boot, muttering about
her siblings taking her clothes.
Your parents say nothing to me of spending the night- your father says only Good morning, and
your mother, How are you? Can I get you anything? Offer your guest something to drink.
A wry smile shades in your lips.
