While we were gone, a wind, and: Flowering Trees

While we were gone, a wind

The wilted plants. The hard, deflated sponge.The box of clementines, three brown around the edges.The kitchen smells like rot, though the garbage is emptyand the fridge is bare.

While we were gone, a windblew through the window and knocked over our stashof sippy cups; our boy finds them as he wanders dreary-eyed

into the kitchen. What happened? he mutters,kicking the cups against the wall.

He hasn't bathed in days—his warm, grimy hands cup my belly as he falls asleep.

In the dark country night, I wanted another child.It was like electricity through my body. I was ready.Home, all I want is to sit on the couch and eat chocolate kissesfrom the freezer.

While we were gone,the house longed for us:teddy bear open-armed on the couch,blue fleece blanket spread softly across the armchair,the morning hairbrush solitary on the coffee table.

And now you lie in bed longingto touch me, our unpacked suitcasespilling sand across the clean wood floor.

Flowering Trees

The magnolias bloomed for a week,then shed their petals on the lawn.Two weeks for the redbuds,then their feisty pinkson sidewalks and cars.My boy just learned the namesof these beauties and now they're gone.Soon he'll venture into dirt,

squashing dandelions in his sweaty palms.Then summer will roar into the yard,turning the dandelions to dust.And this morning, driving homefrom the park, I saw my childhoodfly out the window: my father grippingthe steering wheel, his fingerstapping to the music. I lostthe season, the color of his shirt,the timbre of his voice.All that remainedwas a terrible thumpingin my throat, his love swelling,then spinning from me.Sometimes I search for my fatherin my boy's eyes. And when I find him,I turn away, I scatter, I disperse.