But where do the breasts go first is my question.
I understand their fantasies of fleeing south.
The winters are loud and long and white
and by March, well. I wonder why I’m still
in it too. Now the round pits thumb up
beneath the skin, tender and hot to the touch,
crushed by my new weight. This island I’ve
had to make of myself brought a bevy,
angered by easy pleasures: sugar, soy sauce,
potatoes, ice cream. My love’s language
is to make a meal, ask what I can take in,
ask what maladies to avoid. As for my house:
touch is far and few between. Desire wanes
between compresses of cloves cinnamon turmeric
and honey. But in the mornings, a gulf between us,
my hands are kissed. The blinds drawn to keep
the sun from disturbing my sleep while we wait
patiently for my body’s quiet prayer of thanks.