Simone is babbling to her nighttime friend,a small pink fabric square,while Cal gracefully
waves himself to sleep, smoothing his handsacross the bed, his chest, the airlike someone learningto make spiderweb.
Slow is the quality of his motion, deliberateas his brain instructshis body withoutknowing. How can one
know? And Simone, under the signof her new perfection, lurches and jerksto whatever her attention beckons:movement is in fits, irregular
as heartthrobs, unlike Cal, the threadof him continuouslyunfurling, furlingagain, some [End Page 201]
verb with no word. You love your childrenas much as anythingyou were unprepared for:fiercely, with fear,
with all the fucking hatred it takesto sustain a self through so muchshiftless snowing. Love isa composite. When they
revisit this site aeons from now to dig,the bones of you—yes, me—won't fittogether to form
any coherent clue or allusion, but hereyou are, today, your nestprotected from all butwhat happens. [End Page 202]
Craig Morgan Teicher is the author of Brenda Is in the Room, Cradle Book, and To Keep Love Blurry. He serves as a poetry editor for the Literary Review and lives in Brooklyn with his wife and children.