A Forging Heart

Wrinkled from skiing in Aspen.
He was on sabbatical. Quickly, I made him a professor although he wasn't.
We agreed to make a baby although nothing was ever said about it.


And I thought more of the mummified cowboy excavated from his stable home walls.
I thought less of my body.

We kept trying to co-write a book.
He called me sweets and made sure I was on the pill.


I wrote about everything at 41 Broadway.
The drafts grew a heart beat. The Williamsburg-famous came in and out.
Guys and Dolls. Then, the toddler son of the band's keyboardist.
Although I never saw his face but did trip over a car seat once in the middle of the night.


What if this is just a draft?
And drafts are all we have?
A constant negotiation between permanence and death?


The keyboardist's son.
A growing figure of black curls, which I saw from my window within his stroller.
Still could not see his face.


The roof without a ledge for parties.
The chandelier that clicked.
Coke on mirrors. Bottles on mantles.
And a forging heart within my walls.