I Spend Two Nights Away from My Husband and Son

Walking down Walnut Street, I see the dine-in or takeout sign
outside of the Asian fusion restaurant, a lotus flower drawn on
 
in purple chalk. I think of my hunger the night before, how alone 
I wanted to be. The blue house turned bed & breakfast where
 
I ate three strawberries on the floral-printed sofa, the ceiling
arching above me like white knuckles folded in prayer.
 
I was supposed to love this. I was supposed to know what to do
with this. For a few more moments, I don't know anything—
 
not the window showing off July in the city. Each rooftop
its own horizon, orange as a streetlight. Not this desk.
 
Not the many cars repeating themselves over the manhole 
like a click in the road. I pocket the silver key to my room,
 
place my hand below a new rounded surface, bone
making its own church inside me. Stained-glass windows
 
like the color of fruit. This box of cookies my mother 
gave me sitting next to a miniature spoon. After she tells me 
 
to go look at the moon, (says it is magnificent), I make an X 
over my wrist. The mosquito in its place in the world. 
 
Like the half-drunk wine glasses left out on the deck, 
two people at one point where they needed to be—
 
I like the way no one takes them away.