Seven Years

    These cold days when the insane sky's clear， heat poofs away be-

    yond its net of edible¹ blue. My cat folds， flops² across the laundry

    steps. Flags the size of jeans pockets flip-flap affixed³ to rowhouse

    fronts. The nicest， cleanest hands reach to switch out lights in

    stores： futons， ring trays， eyeglasses， dresses， go dark. "The bed is

    not very big." Cold or no there are fathers calling mothers and child-

    dren walking home or out； also those of us who are neither father

    nor mother and have forgotten the complicated unchosen knits and

    methods of being somebody's child. Hires Root Beer signboard

    creaking， then not creaking. This year Thanksgiving dinner begins

    in the afternoon： a moist bird， venison stuffing. Window glass goes

    blue-indigo. "Is this the right crockery？" Cold little birds， like knots

    of twine⁴， jam the Japanese Zelkova just outside， gabble in the light-loss

    hysteria. The Dow Jones dropping. Friends' kids leer from photos I

    stuck on the refrigerator. Last night I slammed a door so hard the

    mirror hung on it shattered over my back. I was not hurt； moreover

    he stopped shouting back， ran in his socks onto the crackling glass，

    put his arms around me？