cream

there are days of ivory light when I read books

just for the head pictures; i pull the spines from

creamed hyacinths—we too age in thickness.

like when my morning eye is vellum, my home

becoming transfers—broad grains, chunks, Ivory

soap dissipating through bathwater. I used to

wrap ribbon around your hands—the same ones

that carved animals from small bars of soap; blue

jays, hippos, smooth on my shins. now, the old

day still sweats, spins pearl from thin light; on

our porch, you can see pears hung from the trees

like drawings, contour lines for shadows. now,

your bones are wrapped and bowed, in some

place, sitting still. bones like small bays that we

used to grow out and then in—like thick braids,

or pearls, or rinds thicker than the pear itself.