Breakdown in April
Alone in my bedroom, I sob,
and the wardrobe steps forward,
like a coffin-mother, to embrace me.
Later, standing at the back door,
a coyote crosses my vision
on a wave of snow. This
is intimacy: once, in a supermarket,
you slid up behind me,
covered my eyes, and said, guess who?
Did I recognize your touch or your voice?
I sleep with the windows open
and the rain climbs into my bed
like a lover, naked beneath the quilt.
I could roll over and wrap
my arms around the rain.