and it sounds like

* at SYWC, we wrote poems from a limited perspective, i.e., ourselves as children. or martians. i chose the former:

pack a bag, you say

and i look up at you. the

beauty of your mouth always

catches me by surprise. how it

soothes me, lingers in my dreams, laughs

at my jokes. we're leaving,

you say, and there is a dissonant note

in your voice that i can't identify

but it doesn't sound like love.

get in the car, you say,

looking down at me. the

shape of your eyebrows always

tells me if you're happy or sad,

tired or excited. but this pattern is

less familiar. hurry,

you say, and there is a break

in your voice that i've heard before

and it sounds like tears.

i'm taking the kids, you say

and i look up and see the two of you. the

clench in your jaw never

gets that scary, not even when i said

shut up or when Jordie hit me. i want

a divorce,

you say, and there is a knife

in your voice that glints with rage

and it sounds like aching.

i'm hungry, you say,

glancing in the mirror. the

smile you're wearing almost

looks like a big fake and it

doesn't match your eyes like it does

when you are really happy. where's daddy,

i saw, and there is an unbreakable silence

before you sigh and tell me.

and it doesn't sound like love

anymore