Omen

I feel like my mother when I am in love.

I think it is the strawberries I grow on my windowsill

to have something ripe to feed you in the morning—imagine

you and I on feather beds,

dusting lampshades. Planting

fig trees in the yard. Your feet

press down on wet soil.

I am a life-giver in the garden,

tending to my love.

I read once that we look for our fathers in the partners

we choose. I consider this while you sing in the kitchen

to our old cassettes, elbows everywhere, hands sprinkled

with flaxseed. My mother’s spit coats the bathroom sink.

We laugh and laugh at the breakfast table.