You sat Indian style
Next to a pile of baby washcloths
When I was ancient and only seventeen
We’ll never have a baby together
I certainly hope not
But even now girls take tiny round tablets
And you are afraid of getting that close again
The kind of close where I can hear you swallow
You are self-conscious about you swallowing
It’s about the only thing you’re conscious of
Unconscious on your chest
I meditate on the impermanence of happiness
And how I feel ugly in my recollections
You, the color of June 10th
And me, the color of woven bracelets
That grow looser every time I take a shower
I am angry at the clogged rain and gray water
My own hairs pulling out
I held a book up for you to see
I was testing you
The women on the page turn justice into banners
And long hair and motherly bodies
Which they all seem to fear once they’ve left the womb
And you laughed
Which let me know that
You can do nothing but hear me swallow
And pick out the golden strands among the brown