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Indigo
I can/'/t open the box.
In the box, sits three months—
Three months of hope,
Three months of planning,
Three months of congratulations,
Three months of "you/'/re going to be great parents,"
Three months of Her.
And when I look
At the bend of the bow,
The tie of the knot,
The crinkled, colored wrapping,
I see the crumpled shape
Of the woman I love,
Whose love is too great
To bear.
I see the weak, wavering smile
Of the woman I love
Who worries that I worry
As she wastes away.
I see love,
Measured in pain,
Measured in agony,
Measured in weeks upon weeks
Trying to keep Her healthy
As the woman I love
Lives love, breathes love,
Weaponizes love,
Fighting her body at every turn
For Her.
So I pack, carefully.
I tuck the corners around
Fifty years of struggling,
Of cakes, and arguments,
Of sense and nonsense,
Folding, and creasing, and smoothing,
Until, from the outside,
It just looks like a box.
—We dreamt of a lifetime
And came home with a box.
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