Here, my marriage opened
Like a pomegranate, my eyes
On each blood-slick jewel and not
On the empty spaces. Not on 90 years
Of wear on the woodwork.
Not on a porch slanting,
Bent deeply into its longing
Here, my husband arched above my body,
Arms like the doorway
To a European church
That’s been filled with art
And bones, emptied
Of shame. Candles to give prayers
A flame. My body rose like a thin scar.
Here, our baby slept
On her wedge of rolled towel.
Her lips and chin moved through the night
Here, our dog circled himself
Before lying down.
Outside, branches stretched above the roof,
Shuddering and helicoptering,
Leaves shadowing our house into
The eight dark rooms of two hearts.