After you leave the office
I turn off the overhead so the secretary
will think I’ve left.
I sit looking at the white paper on my graying desk
and recall being an adolescent
in the same light: not
being able to move into the world
that wants you to do everything
the way it wants. The backstroke.
Touch-typing.
Cutting a dress from a pattern.
An A-line. Cotton.
A pink daisy print
spread smooth on the Home Ec. table,
pins between my lips.
Later hemmed at home. This was when
we had to wear dresses to school.
This is when I knew I would marry one day
but first have my own office.
This office is light, or dark really,
the way my room was always dark
so I can avoid being the daughter
in the rooms with lamps.
How I wish you would turn your car
away from your wife and child
and return to this square of dark light
so familiar, as I’ve already said,
it falls to pulse with grief