Language would be something extra,
like sugar. You would rise even earlier,
walk as quietly as a man of your size can
through a house of wood floors
and nervous windows. I would hear
your boots on the stairs, then outside
crunching the frosted grass.
It would be during this short walk
from our house to the barn that you would
wake, the moon drawing you to her.
The bucket clanks against your leg,
the barn door creaks open, and now I am up,
following your disappearance.
I dress for the day in my one dress,
wash my face in cold water, and fasten my hair
with many long pins. The house is as quiet
without you as when you are in it.
In the kitchen, I break eggs over a blackened pan
and slice potatoes. Outside, the light flows
up into the darkness. The screen door gasps
open and you are here with your pail of milk.
The breakfast sizzles. You wash your hands.
Water pours over the rough shells of your skin.
Tonight, while you sleep, I will hold your smooth palms
to my ears and listen.
Originally Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 2.
