Flopped in the armchair, I’m folded
in half under a blanket, clam-shelled over
criss crossed legs. The applesauce
on the stove is bubbling. Soon you
won’t even have to chew the chunks. Soon
we’ll put cinnamon on top. My wife—
I still hold this idea gently, it’s wings
haven’t dried yet—rubs my back.
She laughs with my nephew about
his charade of a chimp cheerleader
for the board game we bought especially
for today. The apples are done.
My nephew is taking his own sweet time
being born, unwilling to leave his sheets
and learn what cold is. I miss my mother.
The stove is cold. I’m trying to untie my
self from the muscles in my back and
the mallets pounding on my overtired brain
to float up to today when lights were on
and our laughter clattered like dishes
in the sink. There’s applesauce tomorrow.
Margaret Voetberg
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