There was war somewhere on the news.
Every day. In America. On the border.
War locked away in the darkened envelope
of our stirred, combusting minds.
Winter arrived late with its diaphanous
wings & unsalted sidewalks bandaged
with new snow. Dish racks I arranged in
the pantry glistened with dry crusts where
baked bread or croissants should have
been. In the week of power outages,
in the year of hunger, all we had was love,
its fused & infinite grammar, its wet eyes
& tenderness for days. This will do, I said
to my boyfriend, as he rinsed the dishes
in the sink, as I shoveled the overnight
snow crowding out the sidewalk.
This & perhaps your arm hanging down my
shoulder & staying there a little longer will do.