Or, December 9th
Your friend stops by
lemon curd thumbprint cakes,
a one-year child
with a snuffling nose-laugh
and the off-hand comment
that reminds you
what you love
in your life.
You have to leave the room.
When you come back
your friend has taken a picture:
the dog eyes warily
the baby's lotus of a hand.
When your life rearranges itself this easily,
it is like lifting and shaking out such a thin veil
that no one even feels the air move.
Your friend loves
her one-year girl,
all the ways she has
already ripped her life open,
all the ways they can't do without
The thing you love doesn't exist
unless you look at it. You are allowed
to blink an unforgivable number of times.
When you turn, it turns sweetly, as if from sleep.
When you look, it regards you,
just standing there joyfully abject
you regard each other looking in