Little Gods

It’s difficult to love anything
as much as I already love our children.
I’m running out of room to put all this love—
cramming it, three to a hanger,
in the closet of love for future things.
There’s not much else in there,
except maybe future yous—
you in slacks, you in a doorway we own somehow,
you from behind, naked and unbearably vulnerable
in that way only naked men can be.

We are in this waiting room,
hands tied with all the things we should have done.
How I should have just taken you with me
when I traded coasts,
folded you into my carry-on,
your smiling face glowing on the x-ray monitor.
I’ve always been able to put you in tight spots,
uncomfortable positions.

There’s a list somewhere
of the only words capable of describing love
for something that doesn’t exist.
I’m told they read this off in church every other Sunday.
A man with small hands and age spots
walks past the pews and perches behind the podium,
a bird ready to sing the only song it knows.

I can rest easy now, having heard them recited.
Knowing there is a whole language for people like me—
praying to little gods that they wait for us,
saying we’ll get our act together,
we promise.

— 2010