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.