It was most of all the way you’d proclaim your self-importance in morning granola
served mixed together with organic yogurt and my fruit, frozen hard.
I always came second to your child which was the way it should be. But
at bedtime he and I would peer at each other over your head as it nodded
time to the words of the story and sometimes the look wasn’t lovely at all
but full of regret for the other’s existence.
What I remember most is the afternoons in summer spent lying in bed
with the hot sun shining in on us and my gut wrenching to be doing
something or even anything besides this nothing we’d managed to wrap
ourselves in to, and the heat. I’m not so sure my best moments were with you.
Certainly there was an awful lot of hating boredom and doing for the sake of not doing
and perfectly good hours wasted along the face of my clock you’d hung
in the beams of my light shining a lavender white. Oh,
but then there were your hands. They were cold on my thighs that ached
under the weight of days spent on the far side of the bed we shared
though you’d never know it from looking. The blanket barely stretched
across the length of the flat mattress and I was always stealing it in the slumbering hope that you’d come closer for refuge from the moon winds gasping in on us, closer
from the street lights that cast our night room orange, closer
from the hum of the refrigerator sleeping, nearly empty now of meat or sweets,
small bulb revealing only an apple or condiment and then large empty spaces of shelf.
When I came back to pick up the last of my things you’d found buried
in the closet, stored for the years, I took your son out for ice cream. He told me
that I didn’t live there anymore and he missed me and he was only three years old.