Brought home one rain-slick day so your sleight hands
would have someone else to touch,
he is hoisted like a sack over your shoulders,
pushed about your middle like a fanny pack,
and sometimes squeezed into the small hollows
of a doll’s dress, swimsuit or robe.
He is patient, nonetheless, but learning
how to hide, to pare his breathing, to tighten
into the unreached underneath of cabinets and beds,
where your hungry hands strain and sag, useless.
Throat-sick, heart-struck by these many no’s
to your sung pleas and invitations,
Oh my dears, love is a helpless, hope-filled endeavor
we choose – get chosen by – to make life harder. Better.
