a poem a day for a year #39

by Amy Turn Sharp


I sat in a waiting room for 47 minutes yesterday

a child slept in my arms

his spittle down my chest

warm and sticky

another small son ran circles at my feet

until he found someone else to bother

I sat and stared into the light from the small frosted window

the weight of my baby on my body was comforting

like lead blankets

 

everything was going on around me

life and flashing machines

and loud voices

and my children

and the infinite buzz of sound

 

but I was away

someplace

deconstructing your kiss

the last one we had

 

I dismantled the hot air between our mouths

I exposed the single small string of saliva

tethering us together

I analyzed the way my upper body moved in waves towards you

I took the tilting of our heads to note

the small gentle moans

that always come

I studied

the way our legs break weak

 

I did all that right before the small boy

jolted me out of my place

he fell at my feet and I smiled at him

I smiled at him and then stretched my hand

to muss his hair

I felt my face on fire