The candles are long out, the smoke a silver ribbon
unspooled toward the ceiling fan.

​

Down the hall my two daughters sleep.
I remember them as small things,
bath-warm, damp-haired,
smelling like sweet pea and crayons.

Where did that kitchen go?
Where did the footie pajamas go?
I think they’re in my heart still.

​

I thought I would feel old today.
Instead I feel like a shell held up to the ear,
the whole sea of my years
going shhhhh, shhhhh, shhhhh.

​

The dishwasher hums its little song,
the porch light flickers,
and the floor has a little smear of frosting.

​

I am 46,
I am 7,
standing barefoot on linoleum,
waiting for presents.

​

Everyone I love is asleep.
I stand here in the dark
being very quiet, being very full,
so much love with so many places to go.