30 of 30. The Move

It didn’t feel like leaving for Indiana.

It felt like an arms race

a cold war

and the baby turned her head so slowly

to watch us all.

Weeks later the beds are screwed together

the bookshelves are nailed to the walls

and it is 91 degrees and pouring rain.

I run my fingers along the garden fences

when I walk to work,

to school,

to the deli around the corner.

The east village is swallowing me.

I wanted this.

There are no babies pushing strollers

into the closet anymore,

no roaches raising families in the blender.

There is only poetry and garden,

yoga and picking up shifts to pay the rent.

It gets better.

Nothing was broken and fear only leaves

bruises.

The babies are growing older.

Everyone’s kitchen is the colour

they always dreamed it would be,

and the parties will roar over the stillness.

We visit the pool and there are enough

falafels and hummus to eat in the shade.

Enough heat before the storm to send us

into the water.

The laughing is blood rushing back to the bruises.

I hold out my arms for whoever

will jump.

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About amyleighcutler

Writer, dancer, vagabond extraordinaire
This entry was posted in 30 in 30, Poetry, Summer, travel. Bookmark the permalink.

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