By the third night of each disappearance I grew desperate.
I imagined her running. I imagined her among wild dogs  

making offerings: Bic lighter, crabgrass.
Howling to seal the trade. Meanwhile I slept  

with her army jacket over my head.
Meanwhile I looked for her  

in the faces of babies. I knew this was the price
for the daily impersonations, living  

somewhere without snow, without
parents, phone calls with the landlord and the city  

and the bank, thrift store mattress and car driven away
in a truck, and I knew if she came back I couldn’t ask.  

So the washing machine, the mechanical landscape.
So the pancakes turning black on the stove.  

I woke up and woke up. I tried to get on with it.
Washed the sheets, burst the tomatoes.  

Front door broke and electric’s due I wanted to say.
Come back I see you in all our spoons.