I do it from my car in the driveway 
because I have no home of my own.
My husband stands in the picture glass window, 
leaning in to decipher 
the muted words my lips make 
through the windshield. 

When I come inside, I am shaking cold 
from sitting in a parked car in Utah 
in the winter 
and from wringing myself out to a stranger 
by phone. 

I will never be warm again. 

“Did you talk about me?” He asks. 
“Did she tell you to divorce me?" He asks. 

My mouth is blue my skin pricked, 
rigors and lock jaw. 

And so it goes every Thursday at noon. 
Him waiting at the window for me to turn the engine and leave. 
Me coming back inside.

you drew my face in lumber crayon
on 10 point caliper paper
every year for 30 years

on summer evenings
we’d walk to the Princeton track and fields 
to sketch the lacrosse team warming up

for something to do

you drew serious and fast
never looking at the page
thighs and skirts a squiggle of face

explosive and static

at night you worked the sketches
in inks and gesso on the 3rd floor
by lamplight 

to Maria Callas

I fell asleep under the drafting table
in your cardigan and socks

An old hippie guides a fragile kite into the air. It is cut by hand and twined around a wooden spool. The string holds back the paper heart from being loosed into the sky. A tender blue tail of the thinnest crepe, sprinting in its wake. The man dances it in swift circles above my head. I watch it swoon and dive in the bleached sky, deciphering meaning from chaos until water leaks from my eyes. 

Up the shore, my children swim. 
They fall, scream, right themselves, fall again. 

The tiny valentine writhes above my head, alive and taught against its line. 
 My open heart— a gaping panfish flummoxed by the bob and weave— reaches for his paper one.