I’ve sat at this kitchen table
for a week and watched
my youth play back
in film reels that sever
each time the baby cries.
My wife lies in our bed
with the lights turned off.
There are things inside me
that want to go in there,
touch my lips to her forehead
and tell her I love her.
But the words are chicken bones
I can’t wash down.
My daughter crawls across
dirty tiles toward me.
After each jaunt forward,
she falls flat on her belly.
Then she gets up again.
I put down my drink,
pick her up and mouth
the words “thank you.”