When we made love you had
the dense body of a Doberman
and the square head of a Rottweiler.
With my eyes closed I saw:
a light green plate with seared scallops
and a perfect fillet of salmon on a cedar plank.
Now I am safe in the deep V of a weekday
wanting to tell you how the world
is full of street signs and strollers
and pregnant women in spandex.
The bed and desk both want me.
The windows, the view, the idea of Paris.
With my minutes, I chip away at the idiom,
an unmarked pebble in a fast current. Later,
on my way to the store, a boy with a basketball
yells, You scared? to someone else, and the things
on the list to buy come home with me.
And the baby. And your body.
From Museum of Accidents by Rachel Zucker. Copyright © 2010 by Rachel Zucker. Used by permission of Wave Books.