Two Poems

asleep beside a dead tree
miles from anywhere or anyone

You have a house half-built, a new child to raise.
I watch a film in which monks only speak to one another
through prayer or song, scooping snow. For once the women
around me sleep peacefully. For no reason in particular.
It’s Tuesday. You no longer need to ask if I still think of you.
Your first child is someone I’ve never met. Your second is named
after me. You’re miserable most days. Or so you’ve said.
Where you live, my birthday is just a deadline for the dentists.
On yours, however many years before, they opened King Tut’s tomb.
Who cares. I think a lot about finding some way to be really and truly still.
I miss you more than I remember you. I buried something of yours
a long time ago, and do not recognize what has grown up all around me.

your body only hauntingly

I fall to the kitchen floor / struck afraid by my child / caught with nightmare
brambles all around / and scratches on his face. / His eyes are open
but he is not awake. / I lift the hem of my shirt to dab at the wounds / and listen
to Jay / as he listens to us and sighs again to signal / he won’t sleep
until we return which we will / though this provides no answer / when you ask
should I say moonlight / or astonishment / or certainty?