We donated our pasts to the bargain shop.
We stuffed notes and diplomas and photos
into fat albums—hogtied.
We’re versed in tiny linens, tiny hangers, and tiny clothes.
All of the mysteries of middle age unfold before us like a pocket map of some foreign place—we age in the angles and creases.
And now.
The morning sunlight reveals a silent landscape of furrowed bedsheets and an unfamiliar crib.
We feel for kicks and limbs—for fingers and toes.
The days are a watercolor wash of wintery gray.
The white-noise hum of the boiler heat sinks into our ears like a cotton ball.
We sleep in strange, distant wavelengths.
Our bags are packed.
For now, we wait.