I’ll move through this house like I’m my own
housewife. Wear a robe with nothing underneath,

put on red lipstick and kiss myself on the cheek
before sending me off to work. Look longingly

out the window. Wait for myself to come home.
I have to remember that solitude is not a sacrifice.

And I have to remember that a swallow
is also the name of a bird, not just the inability

for me to stomach the lump in my throat.
It’s tapping at my window. We could be happy

in this room. We could shop for drapes
and talk about the difference between blinds

and shades and you and me and how it doesn’t matter 
because the light will make it through. Leave 

the window open so the noise can sing me to sleep,
you let me. The cars and the people in the cars

will remind me that we’re not the only ones 
in the world which is hard to believe under the covers.

We’re in our own snow globe. It’s shaking me.
It’s covering me. You’ll get used to the snow,

the Seattle rain against the window, on the hem 
of your pants, soaking through your shoes then 

your socks. My sun boy, my desert man, California 
avocado with a pit so big inside of you, I’ve tried digging

with a spoon in vain. I’ll have to take my sharp edges
to you soon. Can you love me outside this room?

We’ve made a different kind of love in the kitchen. 
Watching the water dance with the yeast. You make

the bed and leave a glass of water on my nightstand 
while I let my fingers wrinkle under the shower head. 

You can’t help that I know too much of you. Like I know
you wouldn’t be waiting by the window for me

to come home. But why do I believe
that if we had a Gypsophila paniculata resting

by the window, we could raise it when I’ve killed
everything (almost everything) I’ve tried to grow?

Water, water. Everything just needs water.