My husband, I think he misses me.
I think this because he told me.
I hear him saying this.
I hear him saying I said it wouldn’t be like this.
I hear myself saying, sorry, luv, I—
Sometimes you don’t know what you need.
Sometimes you know but you don’t know how to ask.
All the talking we do—and the writing—
especially the writing—
is so far from what we are meant to be doing—
which I am now convinced is dancing—
She learns to dance before she learns to speak—
and when she hears a song she recognizes
she waves hello—
We fan the air in front of our faces to say she took a shit
or to say a certain dictator stinks like maggots.
But right now, my husband is playing guitar
and singing something real stupid—
Itsy-bitsy peek-a-boo
and songs about babies who won’t sleep—
The three of us twirling like idiots—
We learn to dance before we learn to speak.