By Sofia Haines
Touch my home. Touch my
walls and tablecloth and the coat I bought my son; he
will be a small blue boy, blue like paint,
and his round hands
spell out something like milk or salt.
I want him to sleep in the crook of an avocado.
Night breaks but does not open.
you are a beautiful woman
said the blue boy. Now, once he is here,
I see that he is blue
like an egg in the dark.
He leans in from a window that wasn’t
there before, kicking his toes against the wall.
Open this jar for me, I ask.
Our yarn has been cut, but open this jar for me:
see, it is filled with honey and lemon,
open this jar and you will
find our needles and thread and a mobile
made from the aftermath of a tsunami.