—for Lisa
We want a hole in the north wall, a hole
then a window, for light, for the green spruce
just beyond the vinyl siding. We’ve managed
to forget the night last spring
when Emilio, Michael, and Pierce, whose baseballs
we return, who we lecture on the sensitivity
of tomato plants to hockey pucks, who ring our doorbell
selling chocolate and wrapping paper
. . . we’ve almost forgotten the night last spring
when the boys climbed the shed roof
and saw this:
my shirt up around my neck,
your hand on my breast, my body beneath
yours, moving.
When I opened my eyes and said shit, you
buried your face in the couch, as if
they might assume your short hair meant man,
as if that might be better. And instead of cursing
them, instead of throwing open the window
and telling them off, I pulled the blinds and hid.
And for months we skulked to the mailbox,
walked the dog in distant parks, imagined
the stories rumoring and how they’d sound
when they reached the parents:
They were doing it in the back yard, under spotlights,
charging admission. We didn’t admit
to each other that we waited for the spraypaint,
the busted taillights. Worse, we were ready
to understand . . . But now
we want a window in the north wall.
We want the spruce-shade. We want
to announce how much we love
the sky, how its light finds us, too,
even here.