Thegas is off

ourchildren are cold.

Doyou love me?

Iheat water in the microwave to fill

thesink to wash their faces and hands.

Doyou love me?

 I sit up with the space heater

watchingfor sparks.  Our children

arebarely lumps under layers of quilts.

Yourlove leaves me cold

leavesme hungry

leavesme.

Enoughbecomes less when divided

intothree small mouths.  I’ve grown

tooold, too practical for promises.

Singsweet songs that rise on the steam

ofpots of boiling potatoes.  Look atme

withsoft eyes as the furnace awakens with a roar.

Whenour children run past me in bare feet, 

whitecotton t-shirts grazing their thighs. 

ThenI will know you love me.

I.

My pen broke just now and thesticky and oh so black ink has affixed my fingers to it but I don’t want tostop writing because I’m outside and the sky is this turquoise blue as if thenight can’t drive out a hopeful day and fireflies are playing hide and seekwith me — one moment glowing green to my right and phosphorescent to my left —far off above my head, they play visual tag.  The male cicadas are loud and we female cicadas are silentbut my pen is still writing — broken and bleeding sticky black ink.  I know as long as I don’t move from thisspot and I don’t stop writing, I won’t fear the messiness of being broken.

II.

We do things for the damnedestreasons — like go off to be alone — because we don’t want be alone.  We want to be missed and followed — tobe sought after and longed for.  Itwould make so much more sense simply to shout out:  find me for God’s sake!If we fell into a well, we would shout. We wouldn’t sulk expecting someone to just know we needed a hand out ofthe darkness.

III.

Our photography teacher told usto ‘see the light.’  I’m a poet, soI thought it would be easy.  But itwasn’t.  Until one day at the busstop, I looked up to see the streetlight still on in the early morning hours.  Its light shattered the early morning rain into a curtain of crystal shards that pooled onto the blackasphalt street.  I saw the lightfor the very first time.  Is it that difficult to see love?  Is itso subtly hidden in plain sight? Have I looked past it because I expected an overwhelming 4^thof July explosion of whistle and color? The 4^th of July only comes once a year.  But the streetlight comes on everydayto light the school children’s way to the yellow and black bus. It backlightsthe rain and shines my way home. Yeah.  I think that’s love.