Absence of birdsong in your backyard,
cloud-strands not quite making it
into any form. A year of unrealizeds.
For example, my daughter cannot swim;
the last time was right before everything closed,
my swelling body (there were fewer people here) and her baby-fat arms
under the moon, under the moon.
My son does not understand
the look on your face, your words.
I don’t know what to say.
Waving at your husband
through the glass, I’m at a loss,
your loss. Nothing to say.
A year of windows,
(there are fewer people here)
trapped behind solid surfaces—
nothing to do but wait for you
to emerge beyond skin,
taking on light, finally
the form you always were.