Somewhere, a dog is running a circle,

a small dog, a black one, a small black

dog is running in the field, which is really

a small backyard on a hill. The sun is where

it always is, moving towards the ocean.

I’m left in the kitchen alone, wiping a counter,

moving the spices from here to somewhere

else. I wait for the chicken to fall off the bone,

the smell of garlic & I think about what

to watch on the television later, while you

are making cocktails, asking from the other

room why the dog is barking. I’ll say a smart

thing, you chuckling under your breath. In a

dream, I’ll spend the day wiping windows,

making the glass clear, undoing anything

that’s not sweet in our home. When I wake,

you are gone to gym or reading a book, not

sleeping next to me, watching my chest move

up & down like a wave. You bring me tea

with honey. You call me honey. I eat at the

the table we built before Christmas,

my mother, the mac & cheese, loud

banging against the door when the neighbor

hears the music pulsing from the windows.

In the future,

the sky opens

larger than

it ever could

before now.