Down in the shoebox
it’s summer. The bonsai trees
are arranged at random, their stubs
stuck with hot glue. I’ve cut the cardboard
windows open with an exact-o knife
to let the light in, a quick
spritz of Febreeze showering
down on us. At our corkscrew
table, you are dense
like a bear, the chair underneath you tilted
and stained a tinted pink
from popsicles. I raise your
clay elbow and close your fist
around a Blue Moon, the foam I make
overflow with cotton. I leave my wiry
back to you, chopping bits of real orange
slices at the counter, the knife
just an extension of my arm.
Is that our apartment? you say
as I swing around
to find you, leaning
against the doorway. You kneel
next to me, eyes
aligning with our bedroom window.
It’s not, I say, believing it.