Mandolined potatoes fall. Circle,
then fold. Tastes I never knew
to long for. Nutmeg
in cream. A heart grows,
and a body, a personality
that will encompass
my every waking thought. I know
enough to know this
I will love this person
more than I once
On the edge
each daily act becomes almost mundane.
Making dinner, the constant wiping
down of surfaces. And yet,
and yet, I am observed.
My daughter takes her fork, and shreds
her meat, says, “Daddy, I am mandolining
my food. Watch.”
More than myself, I carry two hearts.
And that third one, she watches me. Tells me
“I can’t remember being in your belly.”
And yet, it was so recent, the time
she existed inside. I was different
then. Love seemed, if not finite,
measureable. I am on the verge
of the almost known,
I can’t imagine loving another any more
than I love her. And yet, some part of me knows
this one truth:
Look at all you did not know, did
not contain, and that is about to double.