Sunday night she sees the sun
close its mouth
fold itself into the shape of a dark paper crane. Above the house, the sky appears in pixels
of stars, airplane paper mache. The hours shift their weight to one foot, a blink of red on
the clock. At midnight, she breathes a sigh, sets her pills and lighter aside. The baby cries
from his crib. She turns off the monitor. Turns

 

on her side. His genetics too much like hers. Full of unknowns. She doesn’t sleep.
Instead listens to the lobster-scuttle of dream. Annie Hall. Enjambed thought on Sunday-
into-Monday night. She thinks of everything nobody says:
Failed marriage. Miscarriage. Bad for the baby.

 

Her wrist is small where veins snake into hand. Her mouth soft like a moth wing. She
paints her skin, makes a new face for morning. Eyelids pink and black and blue. Silver
hoops of stars hung from her ears. A dazzle-jewel punctured

 

through nose. And at the end of the day she lets the sun out of her lips: She breathes
chimney smoke, spills the letters like water to snow. My son. She says his name, Liam:
like one long breath held for hours under water.