WHAT WE WANT / LINDA MCCAULEY FREEMAN

I.

I want an unblemished sky,
a rope hammock, a baby.

You want a fishing line,
a lure, a largemouth bass.

I don’t want black flies,
the sun in my eyes, the broken
branches.

You don’t want.

II.

I hold your feet on my lap
while we watch TV,
rub my fingers against
tiny hairs. But when I move
underneath to the smooth,
callused sole, you jump.
There is a part of you
I cannot touch. If I want
to hold you, I must accept
your conditions.

III.

The baby you won’t let me feel
inside stirs occasionally, a cat
startled. I cannot imagine life
without you so I live without
her. Since I have been so long
with you and without her,
this is easy until she returns,
this only child: round, tiny
bubbles at her mouth. I dress
her in fuzzy-footed pajamas,
tell her stories that make
her giggle. She wraps her arms
around me. When she is old enough
to borrow the car, she runs
errands, doesn’t break curfew.
She never misses Mother’s Day
or my birthday and when I am old
and you are gone, I have her.

LINDA MCCAULEY FREEMAN /  MARLBORO, NY 

Linda McCauley Freeman broke her own heart by wasting years convincing herself that her husband would change his mind about wanting to have children. He did. With his young second wife. On the upside, she has written about him extensively in her poetry.

You can follow her at www.facebook.com/LindaMcCauleyFreeman.