I string aprons on the windows for curtains.
I try to breathe normally.
I try to breathe normally, but the air’s
too thin. I never saw your body.
I never saw the body you left,
small as a bird in a cat’s paws.
Bird small as a leaf fallen on the grass.
I see no children that belong to me.
Whatever children belonged to me,
my body’s a reservoir, evaporating.
The reservoir of my body evaporates.
Possums snuffle in the yard at dusk.
Shapes move through the night yard.
I string aprons on the windows for curtains.
