Nov 20, 2007
When he smiles in his sleep
I know he is dreaming of you together
in Hong Kong, in a sunny-colored house
he knew only from pictures
you sent when he was eight,
edges worn from tracing the inflatable slides
in the background, swimming pool
bringing droplets to his face.
You must have slung him on your hip,
I know this from the crush of his arms around
my waist every time I try to pull him awake.
We’ve never made love in the mornings.
He thinks I should make him breakfast.
He knows you did. But not for him.
He has only tasted your cooking
through phone calls telling him to eat more
so he would “grow to be a big and strong man.”
He has.
I don’t remember from where it was
that I took your place,
It must have been somewhere between
the sheets and the old shirt of yours
he insists I wear when I’d forget
to bring a change of clothes
whenever I spend the night.
The dryer isn't working again.
from the balcony, I hang his laundry
to dry by wind that carried you away.
Later when he asked me to marry him,
he told me to use clothespins
so I wouldn’t follow you.
I don’t remember from when it was
that I took your place,
perhaps it was sometime from when
his lips clung to my nipple until I
decided to slip an arm under his neck
and cradle him to sleep.
