58 Readings

Year of windows

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.

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.

Posted 04/19/21
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