for C.
The whites I washed are blowing on the line
and light touches my peppers, rosemary,
and thyme. I sit at the piano but
my hands won’t play. The second glass of wine
is not enough to quiet my mind. Bread rises.
You’re pregnant. And I say that I’m so happy
for you, and though I am, I’m so, so sad.
I know I must believe things can be good:
the dark stains in the towels, the woman’s empty
but upturned palms, the bending goldenrod,
this heavy silence on the part of God.