ATTACHED TO THE SWAN COMES THE WATER
 

i.
Are you will­ing to wake me with your baby? To trust I won’t cut your lus­cious bangs as you rest? 

My two chil­dren we send to the school best fit­ting per­son­al­i­ties of orange sheets, news­pa­pers smeared with cof­fee & glit­ter-recy­cling. Tin cans emp­tied of black-eyed peas & kale on the counter. Art-class kites are the chipped teeth of love. 

Kids have regrets, which is the hard­est thing to let them have. 

Train your­self to hold your breath for the life of a mito­chon­dr­i­al high-rise. The nooks of our cement book­shelves nest uncapped pens & paperclips. 

Hang­ing off the bed like a white seal, our dog’s head watch­es the win­dow for unsafe shapes. A for­eign tail or omi­nous boot. Under three blan­kets I sleep, reject a space-heater. We’re exca­vat­ing the last light bulb. Yes, we do this. We share the same care­less plants. 

Leaf-eyes fold­ing against fat glass. An ego dis­solv­ing in bathwater.

 
ii.
I want to build a house that tames worth & won’t last. The light won’t stop where we live, nee­dles through the rafters & the gulp of. O we’re not the pleats of wood so we last. 

You’re attract­ed to me or how you turn my body on? I’m afraid dis­tinc­tions destroy me. 

Our back­yard licks up space like a sno-cone where we’ll feed dia­mond-eyed goats. The house isn’t afraid to die. Isn’t afraid to ask for leg-rubs. 

Cov­er me in a blan­ket too dirty to touch the face. My face loops around the park & the dog rec­og­nizes you as you bike by. Pulls me toward your spokes. I’m look­ing for a life like our own.

We’ll train the goat to dig for bro­ken egos of our unmea­sured rec­i­p­ro­cal. Exchange, the only end­less lyric. So the gift won’t die on wall­pa­per, wilt.

 
iii.
My dead phone, my neglect­ed ice melt­ing in sneak­ers & watch the rice cook for din­ner. How reas­sur­ing the starch drib­bles down & stains the pot. I feel you breath­ing when I hold the soapy sponge. I do.

A frozen ten­nis ball dis­solves on our bed. This is not a metaphor for love, yet love, the dirt-freck­led arm cross­ing rafters of chil­dren, is the plant spi­ral­ing from your bangs. Loca­tion, a choice. Attrac­tion rip­ples out of my vase set on the cof­fee table. 

 
iv.
Kites hide under the cov­er of kale. With ques­tions & arms kids pin­wheel­ing toward us. Tilt­ed paint­ings nobody rights. The per­son­al­i­ty of our baby? Is phys­i­cal, too? Domes­tic fan­tasies exist by the liter to unblur the future of shared space. A laun­dry pile of love poems. Your body like a warm moon. 

With­out abstrac­tion. With­out with­out the vio­lent couch, vio­lent vase, vio­lent sink, O vio­lent & mat­ted rug. We’ll emp­ty the vac­u­um to the lyric stem, the vine that breaks the planter, water-swelling.

The back­yard sways with antlers & baby teeth. Hold­ing a dog­bone grave­yard, wrig­gle up the wood­chip tree house. With lat­ticed words lend­ing the rec­i­p­ro­cal bathtub. 

Let’s have a water­ing the plants date. A find the miss­ing mit­ten date. An ice-cream in bed date. A talk date. The hot show­er & how you soap my spine date. A how do you know me? date. 

What are we, bystanders? With paint­ings slip­ping off the wall?

Talk, attrac­tion, date. Sleepy meals? My attrac­tive talk, like kite tails afraid of tim­ing. Let’s plant your lus­cious bangs in my chest. 

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Julia Cohen is the author of Trig­ger­moon Trig­ger­moon (Black Lawrence Press, 2011), and her work appears in jour­nals like jubi­lat, Col­orado Review, DIAGRAM, and New Amer­i­can Writ­ing. She is the Asso­ciate Edi­tor of the Den­ver Quar­ter­ly.