And yet say so little
about
an empty swimming pool on the roof
the lane markers, how they look like sharks
ready to eat the sky

And then leg-shaped tree trunks grew
where my legs had been
and my skin calcified so I was
a barnacle
on the side of something large, vague
my heart no longer muscle but
a clock in a box
I am governed now by a clock in a box
I am aware of all my
circuitry
its tendency to misfire,
all the gaps and faults along the wires
but while I am here I am
beating back the choking vines
and moving forward,
I hope.

One day, he’ll be gone
suddenly
like when your child has a cough
that annoys you at the breakfast table
day after day
and then you realize it’s gone,
though your child is still here, of course,
one of two children you nevertheless persisted
to create,
not knowing what a world this would be
and nevertheless persist to be glad of,
even now,
even knowing.
One day, he’ll be gone
but my children will still be here,
and yours, and you,
and I.
Promise me what no one can promise:
Promise me it’s true.

I imagine a world and put myself in it,
a pastel world of frozen foods, indifference
and pantyhose. I am trim from eating
cottage cheese and canned peach halves.
I imagine a world and put myself in it,
a station wagon and a dog named Champ,
my two boys playing football on the lawn,
a postcard from myself to myself, a symbol.
I imagine a world and put myself in it,
dusting the drapes on long Tuesdays when
my husband stops after work for cocktails
and there’s another long week before bridge.
I imagine a world and put myself in it —
what world do you imagine and put yourself in?