by Darcy Luetzow Staddon
This is the broken place
she asks for pieces of gum she asks for my
coffee she is 4 and these are not things she can
have
she asks me to pull her pants on but
the things she can do we want her to do
herself she asks to carry her baby sister with
the neck still jelly no
no she asks no she no
she asks me to hold her the baby is already
on me but I say yes and I walk this way I make
dinner I read bedtime stories in
Japanese I relax
the clenched origami and saddle
unicorns
he returns from his trip his panic refolds stood up
on edge as the
baby’s spit-up hits tatami he is double folded
triple to retract his fray from us
my exhaustion harnesses into rote tidiness
he wants to be
both daughters on his rocking chair knees but who
can gather up like that now
they have just cut the heavy stalks of rice just cut
them and then they burned the fields in their secret
patterns
it’s warm but we close the windows the fire
traces from outside aren’t meant to mix with the milk
fire with the gritting fatherhood with our family of
four inside this is the broken place the
first step up into our house
***
special in normal times
these days are prone
to groanings. pink swaths
of royal identity help.
hadn’t we better untie our
sneakers from the golden
throne’s claw feet.
look. morning happened. she
told me of the simple fairy
taling of my life.
***
grabbing and naming
There was rain
It oceaned our stream
Did you notice the curls at the sides of my face
To stand by the water is not the clever trick
Wasn’t there more in the bag, hadn’t we planned better than this
Caging the water is
To move back to inside, to practice the spoon handle stacks
There had been a table set, did you catch that
He was setting a table with his voice
But the fruit flies and their noiseless hustle
But the kitchen floor cracking fault lines between me and the sink
Because it’s my fault the baby woke
Because I set the sink water to the volume of the sea
And practiced catching our well’s water
I’ve become good at it, grabbing and naming the creatures of water
They shake their manes and furl, they glove my hands
It’s the baby who taught me to watch for them at the washing of her hands
Art by Steve Johnson, on Instagram @artbystevej.
