HIS HAIR SMELLS LIKE COCONUTS
In the morning our town glows with yellow snowflakes and window displays. You are coming home on the day's first train to pull your suit from the closet and kiss my cheek, and then you will board another train and depart for the city. I walk our son through a fog to school, rhyming all the way about chicken soup with rice. He watches for pigeons, seagulls, penguins in the window, apples on a cart. At the end of the street, we are full of water. Water soaks our bangs, shines our faces. Our coats are covered in a hide of mist. Our son holds my neck up the stairs to his classroom. His hair smells like coconuts. I hand him over, push in his chair, kiss his cheek. You will return the following night and find me under the covers, right where we left off, still cool from the wind.
No One Belongs Here More Than You