how many winter birds have arrived at the empty feeder

since you broke your arm, and what do you say

when your father asks, again, who are these strangers

watering your mother’s lily-of-the-valley? uprooting

our centennial tree? is it only politeness that stops you

from reminding him that he is dead, that this moment

is a dream, and by the way it is certainly not summer?

an immigrant, he could never accept that life below zero

is ordinary, that any phenomenon, repeated fifty times,

becomes your life. do you think you are special? do you think

it is only your own husband, who, looking

over your shoulder as you write a poem, mistakes

its shape on the page for a grocery list and believes

you’re planning to surprise him

with a birthday dinner?