Bah

I find myself days on end watching another man’s
baby—how he says a word and she repeats it, and

repeats it again until her oily lips get it right.
How a laugh like the first honey escapes her. How he knows

she’s done eating when her bottom lip
folds down. How a name—

one open syllable—can be a noun, an
adjective, a feeling of a blue magnolia opening up.

I like it.

​

—

We habituate.

I no longer anticipate your arrival home or wait to eat. I eat,
walk up the stairs, sleep, & dream of a man who knew love.

Love like porcelain plates scraped of fish bones and placed
neatly in the dishwasher.

—

Once I could hold myself up, am I free? Once I
could knowingly clench my fist and understand

the burning water down my face, am I sufficient?
And is our distance justifiable?

—

Now, I blame time. And you? I mapped us out in my
dreams—opened my mouth to see if you would call

back for me. After a while, these things become meaningless.

If I said my larynx was sewed shut, it would be an
excuse. I would be reprimanded. I suppose I have

nothing to call you anymore and out of mutuality,
neither do you. A name—a second of

fresh air—can be a badge, a weight, a clenched jaw.
Baba is an honorific left to a closed mouth.

A moribund language that I buried long ago
in the garden we used to call home.