We used her grandparents' rings
and my sister's house.
I found it charming for a couple years afterwards
to think we were married
at home:
She was there
that was home.
--
He was born in a
hospital toilet in Spring. That year he would
have seen the poppies bloom.
The nurses said
good job. They scrubbed and dressed him
before handing him to us.
As shadows stretched across
the parking lot outside
we took turns memorizing
his face. He was warm
while we held him.
They had to take him back. To help us,
they pressed his hands, too small
to grasp a thumbtack
into heart-shaped clay blanks:
these too they put in an oven
--
I stretch across our bed:
From the living room dribbles
television light the color of Xanax
Will she miss work again?
I don't wake up when she comes
to sleep,
she doesn't wake up when I leave in the morning
early
(to beat traffic)
--
People who knew us:
sushi chef
apartment manager
debt collector
Mail that came with our names printed
together:
car payment
IKEA catalog
bank statement
overdraft protection notice
Therapists:
States visited:
Nevada
Arizona
Oregon
Colorado
Mississippi
Alabama
Illinois
Missouri
Washington
--
But, but,
the beach where we blistered our feet
is still there
the sandstone towers where I knelt
are still there
the places we waited for each other
(the parking lots, the windows, these arms,
this heart, this body)
are still there