somewhere between the washer and dryer. And I already know
about fumbling fingers and whispered "is this okay?"
"I love you." And "I don't want to hurt you."
But you're five when you sob through the phone, as I lap the coliseum,
Once, twice, before lingering in the UTeach hallway and wandering outside,
Because the girls basketball team won, and you don't know if you did something wrong.
He hugged me when he first met me, the day I stole your guacamole
from that burrito bowl and his car, sprayed in skittles and not exactly silly string,
sat in our driveway. His not quite an ex, your best friend, brought asphalt down
to vindicate herself. But it was before that-- when he brought roses for a day date
and thought I was mom, when you barreled out of the garage,
stating, mom knows, as though I would tattle. Because I'm eight, and jealous.
But now, you call through my front door and I'm chopping squash,
Secretly happy you want me and not mom. Ready to fire icicles at him,
because science solves most problems and I'm not good at violence.
You sit cross legged on my kitchen table, eating a yellow piped balloon,
explaining why you couldn't leave and I wonder for a moment,
if you put a wilted petal in water, will it sprout again?
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