Home remedies

The morning you said you might
be pissing out your life again,

the sun came up in your face.
My doctor prescribed exercise, so

I’m fucking you every other night
like I haven’t since our first year

in this house. You lick my tongue,
taste skin, coffee, cannabis. Blood beats

like the hearts of humming birds
in my throat. Coming

home some nights, I’m so proud
if I make it all the way inside

instead of giving up on the front steps.
Now, I let the tv keep me company

while you teach. Forgetting, I look round
to catch your reaction in your empty

chair. I’m almost sure
you’ll return to me. How will it be

when I’m sure you won’t?
Even the days I’m too depressed

to let you touch me, I need to smell
your sweat wetting the sheets next to mine.

Sons

When the midwife held him toward me,
I raised my hands, palms out—
she thought to take him. If I could
have spoken, I’d have said, not me.

As soon as I could stand, I only wanted to get out
of the family-clogged den, to be alone. For the first time
in months, my body was my own.

When my nephew learned I’d carried him,
he wanted his birth father to be you. No such hurdles
will snag your son and me, born a month apart.

The night we three exchanged musics, the echo
of your voice, your face in his
nearly unsaddled me. When his cats
curled in your lap, I thought, maybe he smells like you.

I’m tempted to think he’ll be a piece of you
left when you’ve gone—like me.
Someone to mourn with.

I remember before my nephew was born, how he
would prop himself heel to rib, head to cervix
and stretch with more might than any fetus should have.

I haven’t learned much else ten years
since. I haven’t been around
to answer questions he hasn’t asked.

I wonder if, like you with your son, I’ll have to wait
’til he grows up before I know
how to speak to him.
Sometimes, you don’t know still.

Seeing how your son rides
your voice, I don’t believe mine
will ever find reins to hang onto
in me. I know nothing of horses.