please leave quietly “oh, and
put in a load of washing, I'll be back in an hour”
which is enough time for the fetus of your sulk
to gestate into something more mature and
less troublesome. don't worry about the birthing pangs
it's easiest if you stand up; but watch out you don't
spin away with the galaxy; and beware of that
cosmic guilt which will engulf you in a void knowledge
that somewhere, someone's child is not being cared for
as well as your own, and the fact that I want to drown you
in the delicious comforting scent of fabric softener
because that is how my crisp white sheets feel about you
when they are fresh from the rain – rain on asphalt,
my favorite smell and the one that fills my memories
almost as strong as the smell of you. breathe the ceiling for me
make sure it's white, I don't want to leave
any marks for the decorator. don't close the windows,
because I like how the breeze strokes my cheek
which I like to imagine is cool as the sea
and smooth as marble. make sure the baby stays
in its amnion – be careful how you say it,
that silvery second syllable is cleansing
and put the loaf in the oven. it is rising
let the smell of yeasty richness fertilize your nostrils,
that fodder is golden and tender as a ripe cornfield
which the clouds pass their whispering shadows over
only making it more vivid, and this reminds me
of the brightness and the bulb fusing flickers I read
in your eyes. breathe it, it will fill you.
thanks. I love you.