sometimes i look at them
and i think they are
little versions of us
T looks more like me
and J like you
but for the eyes and lips
T has full lips like you
J’s thin like mine
the eyes don’t make sense though
they’re brown, as are yours
but yours have no green
the way our boys’ do
and a funny thing about eyes:
i read (or maybe heard) once
that they are already full sized
the day a person is born
so maybe they look like
a miniature me and a miniature you
but there is nothing
miniature about their
ever-changing yet never-changing
green-browns that pierce my heart

In response to Miniature.

float back to me, please

i notice when you have sunglasses
and i notice more when you don’t
but still i do not look in your eyes
i’m sure that if i do i will forget
how to breathe
and yet i barely remember their color
and question whether my memory
is correct or created
are they the even honey brown
that i’ve always thought they were?
or something else entirely?

you showed me the ring you got
a symbol for our youngest son
you took it off your finger
and handed it to me
my first thought
was to put it on my finger
my left ring finger
stopped myself just in time
and slipped it on my pinkie instead
we talked about the ring a second
before i handed it back to you

tonight was one of those nights
the nights where i forget who we are
forget that we don’t talk often
tonight you smiled, i smiled
tonight you laughed, i laughed
we talked about life
talked about little things
you told me how much you love
riding your motorcycle
and you gotta fix your tire
i told you about my soon-to-be-born nephew
and his name and how unfortunate it is

In response to Eyes.


and the crows who walked away from the corners of my eyes, they could no longer nest in my bottom eyelashes, too obscured by the egg-shaped tears that had rolled down the sides of my German nose. they had leaked from the ocean-blue wells, where the crows had flown from the blackness we all have in common – pupils all the same color, even if our souls are not.

and the caffeinated ants, who walked into my coffee, not knowing they would dive to the depths only to find their deaths at the bottom of the vanilla that didn’t really come from France and the coffee created by brothers who might have come from hills, but more likely their last name was just Hill, the coffee that was brewed by my mom two or three days ago in an old-fashioned pot on a stove that she has to light with a match – the pilot left in a jet, too lazy to leave a forwarding address.