Beside her

I see myself lying beside her.
I see myself lying on top of her.
I see how she parts her lips,
then closes them again.

The sounds she makes—
I cannot hear them.
The half-light swallows her in an instant.

If we were walking side by side
through the streets,
in Vienna or Venice,
I could hear that she is sitting beside me,
that the silence—
the one that followed the sequence
of her rising,
the rustle, the sweep, the brushing
motion
with which she piled up her hair
and, in one swift movement,
bound it into a wave about to crest—
will not last long,
no longer than it takes
to move from the edge of the bed to
the window,
where she pauses,
gazing down
at the street alive with night.

In the act of looking out,
the wave dissolves,
floods the room,
rushing toward me.

I hear her ask
if I’m all right.
I smile,
see myself smiling at her
as I place the cauliflower on the scale.

I see myself lying beside her.
I see myself lying on top of her.
I see how she parts her lips,
then closes them again.
I hear myself say:
I’m going to be a father.
And hear her reply:
That’s wonderful—
boy or girl, no matter—
congratulations.

To your three nearly grown
daughters,
a boy—
a male heir,
a little prince—
wouldn’t that be something?

I see myself smile, nod,
ask: How are you?
Are you happy?

She nods,
her face turned to the window.
She says she, too,
will have a child
as soon as her husband’s
promotion
is assured—
in a year or two.

I see that I have weighed the
cauliflower,
written the price down on the pad,
wrapped it in newspaper.

When is it due?
In a few hours—
perhaps he is already here,
my son.

I see myself lying beside her.
I see myself lying on top of her.
I see how she parts her lips,
then closes them again.