There are more windows in the new house, so much light

the living room feels weightless. On weekends, I find you

staring out into the garden from the sofa.

You always wake before me, go downstairs & start

playing a song on your phone—sometimes it’s new,

more often it’s not, & always it works

the memory. When we carved the olive tree near our school,

we could barely see the letters. But after the rain,

they blazed orange. Does bark heal, our names

buried inside it? A name is a wound is a song,

so what you’re really doing is calling me. From what

sleep? You warned I eat my days too fast,

or perhaps it was too slow. You once asked,

What happened? A balding head, a bank account.

Somewhere, a boy with a black fringe kicks a football & eats figs

straight from the tree. I repeat the story of my fear

of fig trees, how my parents said the wind from the branches

could blind me. No such thing, you shrug.

Half of our hometowns thought our marriage was a sin.

A mistake, at least. There were phone calls.

There was hanging up. Years of silence.

& though we weren’t a revolution,

we were at least a questioning.

Last week, you almost dialed my old phone number,

& I wondered whether it would ring

in my childhood house, & whether I’d rush to answer.

Only you know & remember the house I drew

over & over again in all my school books:

house with roof tiles, with chimney,

with lake & swan. Simple, geometric house

I never colored in. But look how resilient

the future is, how I underestimated

the importance of big windows. Of the calm sea

of you. I don’t know at what age we learn to be afraid

of happiness. Our first slow dance was in a family club

called Union, in a town too small. We had no flow,

still have none. Unless you consider this—
me in bed, not ready for the morning yet,

& you downstairs, bringing the music.