at dinner, he tells me about the anolis he found,
hands animated, describing the pulse
of its throat, the gold flecks in its eyes.
i watch his mouth form words, the gap-toothed grin
already closing, baby teeth surrendered
one by one beneath his pillow. soon
his voice will crack and deepen into someone new
sneakers by the door grow larger every season—
mud-caked laces i still tie in double knots,
though his fingers now could manage them alone.
i smooth the cowlick at his crown each morning,
my palm learning the shape of him
some nights i stand outside his room
and listen to the breath
i first heard through my own skin.
i want to memorize
the weight of him against my shoulder,
the particular way he says “mom” when he’s half-asleep,
the warmth of his hand in mine crossing streets.
______________________
joni plays softly in the kitchen,
the same songs that filled our house when i was young—
i used to roll my eyes at her voice drifting up the stairs
thinking of mornings,
how I ducked low in the passenger seat,
made her drop me a block from school
so no one would see her waving from the car.
that last week before college,
i chose a basement party instead,
stumbling home at 2 am to find the tv still on,
her shape beneath a blanket on the couch.
the coffee she makes is too weak.
she saves twist-ties and rubber bands,
lines shoes up by the door like soldiers
a slant of sun across the kitchen table,
dust motes suspended in their slow descent.
how easily this could be otherwise:
a different city, a different hand
holding the cup.
yesterday, walking home, i watched
a leaf release itself from the oak—
it turned once
in the light, amber and absolute.
on the couch now, the lamp casting
its particular gold—i want to memorize
the exact temperature of this,
knowing i can’t, knowing it’s already
changing even as i try to hold it still