Dusk and Dawn

Kathryn says I’m not used to healthy love,

that I’m pushing the prototype away.

But I’m getting braver by the day,

allowing this turbulent comfort.

You tell me that the heart is our first organ,

and I ponder how the heart becomes the brain.

We must trust and honor our desires, daddy.

We speak sans words: a sidewalk wears a bow.

My baby moves and I touch my belly.

She’ll be here in my arms soon.

I cry in the coffee shop bathroom, our second meeting.

You write beautifully about fatherhood; I’m awestruck.

I don’t want to say goodbye. I order a latte and stay.

Good riddance to the women who flock around you.

I cancel my ride, telling you the driver canceled on me.

You drive me to my apartment, and we greet the moon.

There’s a deadly spider of doubt the next week,

a web of karmic debt and dust to clear.

Of course, we return to each other.

Two sparrows flirting before an early flight.

You love with your whole soul, entire emoji keyboard,

holding nothing back and keeping no one guessing.

I’m new to this yellow-lit pattern of dusk and dawn.

I’m crying at Terminal B because I’m so happy.