In which finally the warm cast of sunlight pierces the skin around the heart.
In which we discuss how many cups of water are typically poured for one bath.
In which I try to explain how history is never absent; or how I am still learning not to flinch every time someone says a name which is my name yet not my name.
In which we are called to the jury window but cannot reveal to the person sitting next to us what has just now come over us with sadness.
In which the child walking with his mother down the sidewalk runs to a clump of blooms and excitedly chants yel-low yel-low.
In which the animal behind the wire fence comes up to take the cube of sugar and I want to ask of it my fortune, my not-yet-spent.
In which I measure the space between my thighs and wonder at the hinges in accommodation.
In which, arriving home late afternoons, somewhere in the steps taken between laundry machine and sink and pantry, the body resigns its dreams of rest.
In which I arrive at the conclusion that the word Mother is not a factory or threshing floor, not vessel or raft, not well, not cavity, but something more: I have no name for what is infinitely and always open to the elements.
In which I smooth the sheet and affix my signature.
In which I dust the charred heads of my wooden gods and line them up by the sill, because whatever crouches in so little space must crave any form of expanse.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.