—for Lisa We want a hole in the north wall, a hole then a window, for light, for the green spruce just beyond the vinyl siding. We’ve managed to forget the night last spring when Emilio, Michael, and Pierce, whose baseballs we return, who we lecture on the sensitivity of tomato plants to hockey pucks, who ring our doorbell selling chocolate and wrapping paper …we’ve almost forgotten the night last spring when the boys climbed the shed roof and saw this: my shirt up around my neck, your hand on my breast, my body beneath yours, moving. When I opened my eyes and said shit, you buried your face in the couch, as if they might assume your short hair meant man, as if that might be better. And instead of cursing them, instead of throwing open the window and telling them off, I pulled the blinds and hid. And for months we skulked to the mailbox, walked the dog in distant parks, imagined the stories rumoring and how they’d sound when they reached the parents: They were doing it in the back yard, under spotlights, charging admission. We didn’t admit to each other that we waited for the spraypaint, the busted taillights. Worse, we were ready to understand... But now we want a window in the north wall. We want the spruce-shade. We want to announce how much we love the sky, how its light finds us, too, even here.
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