I HEAR THE MURMUR OF THEIR SENTENCES
Our bed sheets rise and fall in the autumn wind, leaving their ghosts behind. I always imagined a blanket on the grass over there, baby on my hip whilst hanging. Pinning. Folding. My husband is lying on the mattress with a fever, too sick to notice my new hair. I cover him in clean towels, bring lemon in hot water. I run him a bath, clear the table, open a book and find my place. The neighbors talk in their yard. I hear the murmur of their sentences and think of them in their beds at night in t-shirts and dirty socks discussing. I think of the evenings I've walked around the block looking into their glowing televisions. My husband sleeps and the water runs. The smell of soap.
Where You'll Find Me