After Baby After Baby

When we made love you had

the dense body of a Doberman

and the square head of a Rottweiler.

With my eyes closed I saw:

a light green plate with seared scallops

and a perfect fillet of salmon on a cedar plank.

Now I am safe in the deep V of a weekday

wanting to tell you how the world

is full of street signs and strollers

and pregnant women in spandex.

The bed and desk both want me.

The windows, the view, the idea of Paris.

With my minutes, I chip away at the idiom,

an unmarked pebble in a fast current. Later,

on my way to the store, a boy with a basketball

yells, You scared? to someone else, and the things

on the list to buy come home with me.

And the baby. And your body.