Your second wife calls to say that the children get
ill after you bring them home Sunday night it must
be something they eat what do I feed them something
dreadful? She calls collect when she’s away. If I
ask who’s calling she says, This is his wife. If I
don’t ask, she says, This is his wife. Sometimes she cries.
I want to feel for her pain, but loving a man
is penance enough. In the yellow tea kettle,
the water steams. Holding the phone to my ear, I
sit at the table with this morning’s dishes. At
breakfast, your youngest son decided to hate the
toast, the jam, the world, me. I wanted to hold him —
the hands covering his face seemed so small, but his
older brother’s stare fixed me, as if in a bad
photograph: off-center, one hand reaching out, the
other almost tipping my teacup, mouth open,
staring straight into the camera. Lot’s wife stilled in
faltering. Pinned without wriggling to the wall. One
of the children slams the bathroom door. The water
steams, without whistling, in the yellow tea kettle.
Last night, one of your children cried out in sleep. The
wood of the hall was cool on my bare feet, and
my nightgown brushed my legs. You were already there
in his room. I stood near the open window and
listened to the hum of your deep voice, woven with
your child’s answering sobs. The white lace curtains brushed
against my flattened belly, aching to be child-
swollen, to share you with something of me instead.
The water steams and she reminds me again that
I have moved into her house. I crumple some burnt
toast with my fingers. Outside, two brown sparrows hop
together in the dried leaves, talking bird-somethings.
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