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 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
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