My Parents in 1986

Their hard-candy shell of new love
something children will bite into.
My mother with girlwoman angles and barstool eyes,

I could see her braving him,
all brow and mustache,
a paper-boy mouth still.

They’re living in a second story window
somewhere grass is mowed in the mornings
by wived men.
I bet my parents didn’t get out of bed 
so early on the weekends then.

I bet instead they grew new limbs 
and maybe roots,
whole gardens by the afternoon—

his eyes catching on her everything even

her shirt-sleeve stitching,

but that’s just the kind of man he is.


She would’ve stood very still next to him

with a pot cover or a cup
preparing to trap that gaze on her sleeve
and take it hostage,
but that’s just the kind of woman she is.

Late at night the neighbors might have wondered 
why the lights were on

while my parents panned themselves and the house

for each last bit of love,
like pioneers in a Californian river—
standing over the kitchen sink rinsing the pans,

the tips of their hair wet,

hips jostling, looking like children from behind
in their human-shaped joy,

my father lifting it, just rinsed,
their eyes rising together to meet
the holy shine of the new love

found only minutes before

behind the couch.

— 2009