my breasts–obsolete and no longer milk-heavy–
held no ache to soothe him new-born, 
not my child. it was my arms that knew

him and the ways we carry each other– 
bits of me in him who began in me 
as an egg safeguarded in his mother’s womb 

while within my own, which bore her and another– 
the weight of toting two wearing down
my hip balls into dried flaking bone– 

replaced since but stiff these days from his weight–
nearly too heavy to scoop up with one arm, 
shoulder grinding to lift him to cling to an alloyed hip

        how long could I carry him? how many miles?

                through an apocalypse– 
                a crumbling cyborg holding the future, 
                trodding through ash toward someplace he could name home

I always hate being sick,

I’m sure everyone does,

But to lay around all day

My body shaking

My head pounding

Even though I know I need to rest

I feel like I’m wasting a day

One precious day of my life

To do nothing

No matter how many times

I tell myself to take it easy

I just lay here and think and stress

Not able to fall asleep when I need it most

I wonder if other people feel this way

Or if they just enjoy the day off

I looked for you
through the music 
which is the best way
to search
you though
neglected to appear
now I listen
knowing full well
whatever you’re hearing
doesn’t remind you of me

you inhale sharply
i fall to my knees
banging against the tub
gripping the plastic shower sheet

you scare me
you say, eyes panicked
i kiss your neck
i love you

The old owner of the restaurant
backs his way through the double doors
of the kitchen carrying a large gray tub.
Hot stuff coming through, he announces
in a loud voice then wrestles the contents
into the empty ice cooler.

Why do you say hot stuff? I asked.
Because nobody gets out of the way for cold stuff!

In her green brocade robe, she makes notes on the kitchen
calendar.  Her tiny, upright writing looks like Einstein’s.   

She plays peek-a-boo with my two-year-old
as he chortles in his high chair.    

“Don’t ever smoke,” she tells me, tapping ashes
into the ceramic dish I made for her in Girl Scouts.   

I never hide in her closet or peek into
her jewelry box.    

My son wheels his trike around her patio, chasing
the soap bubbles she blows.   

When she reads me the story about the possom
at the bottom of the barrel, we both laugh.

Standing at the stove over a steaming kettle, she stirs
strips of wool she’ll hook into rugs.  

In her lingerie drawer, she keeps a soup can label, brown-haired woman,
smiling.  “You’re as pretty as she is,” I’d said.

            For Roberta Wilson Gilkison Falk

humidity drapes down

like a heavy wool blanket

smelling like July

It’s in plain sight
A simple conversation
Cups of coffee 
Doughnut judgment

A Band-Aid on the knee
A dark circle under the eye
“You look so tired,”
“Oh, I used to wear my hair like that,”

I could never be so cruel
Tiny pokes
Add up

“Oh, you’re a real original,”
 “So weird,”
 I could never

I left the window wide open
I told you

I
Felt
Like
You
Didn’t
Care

When I spoke the truth I said, 
“I’m willing to work this out,
 You are my blood”
 With my number still there

You
Said,
“Take
Care”

 But you still tell others we are close
 It is what it is
 I’ve always known it doesn’t matter

And I’m not sure
Why I tried

I close my eyes,
For only a moment
I see life,
Two years from now,
All the vacations
And sunshine,
And I’m happy
In my dreams,

When I wake up,
I blink,
And for a moment
I think I see me,
In ten years,
In the florida sun,
My career
And my wedding ring,
The house on the hill
And the bank account is filled,
And my smile is wider
Than the grand canyon,

I think I have more fun
In my fantasies
Than down on earth,
In my real life,
But if I don’t blink,
And keep my eyes wide open,
Maybe I’ll finally live
In my own body.

The tricycle, borrowed from Nana’s garage, flakes
black paint and lists port as I pedal up and down

along the uneven sidewalks in her neighborhood
of shotgun houses. I’m alone. It’s quiet, the air syrupy.

A three-story house, white siding, orange shutters, looms,
and I labor up the steep driveway, drawn by its profusion

of lush greenery, blossoms, August brilliance — that fade
to gray foreboding as I reach the top and turn to face

a configuration of clock-works, pendulums, wheels, cogs,
springs, weights, levers, emitting a cacophony of ringing,

grating, ticking, throbbing, pounding — to the racing cadence,
ka-thump, ka-thump, ka-thump, of my heart as I wake.