You told me last night that you never leave the kitchen dirty before bed.
I recall marking the passing of time by the growth of clutter in our bedroom years ago.
Time-lapse those months, and behold a miracle:
inanimate objects being fruitful,
multiplying,
subduing our little earth.
Even after we parted
I would laugh,
comforted,
to hear Mom complain of your slovenly ways.
Oh how her eyebrows glowered
when your diamond twinkled in the grimy light
of quarters undomesticated.
Now within you ripens a natural life.
My heart stumbles at the sight of the ascetic sink,
the scoured counters.
"You wait! Your girl will be just like you!"
Your coffee sloshes over the brim
at the spasm of her willing limb.
Dear one!
My hopeful joke is no threat.
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