I think I’m all right again,
I said, after two glasses

of red & dinner on its way.
We were sitting by the kitchen

in Italy, our baby tucked in
for the night. He was three months.

He was three. We were in Italy
& France. In a restaurant

a castle/ forest or/ farmhouse.
There was a church

at the bottom of the hill
& cats. A quince tree

a rake. He was thirteen moons.
Beetles’ shells cracked

under his feet.
He was so new. He slept. 

When he didn’t sleep I cried.
It was August-Christmas-

early March. We’d seen
our share. I slipped

in my seat, my napkin
loose in my lap. His new word

was bird. My mind
had wandered. 

My husband raised his glass.
I pressed my eyes in place.

We left Rome burning
Paris buried in the snow.