Love—when you sat last night
in the old orange chair, holding our baby
flat as a boneless doll in your lap,
and you told me about our daughter’s first morning at school—
how she went up to a girl in the corridor and said
Will you be my friend, and the girl said Sure,
and two new friends
danced off together—
as you pictured those two small beings for me
you raised your hands—let them fall—
drew curves, figures-of-eight, crescents, ogives
to show their dance;
and your hands
covering your bright green $3 shirt
turned red to me—
my retinal cones, tired out by the green, omitted it;
made your hands look as if you’d
dipped them in blood.
And I can’t think of a less right
thought for your hands, which hold
our baby at your breast till he sleeps,
make pizzas for snack time,
wipe tears and snot from noses,
catch crumbs, drinks, limbs,
and which if they are covered
are covered with dribble, spit-up, milk—
Perhaps what I saw was not blood on
but blood in—the red of you inside
as if I for once forgot
to stop at your skin and you showed me
what you are without show—
I don’t know
But lift up your hands
and give them to me.