Who is here with me?

My mother and a dark brown man.

(I am writing this from the past.)

the dark man is not a man, but a statue,

just outside the limits of wood. My mother

is made of mother. She touches the wood

with her eyes, and the eyes of the statue

become her eyes.

(I am not dreaming this. I haven’t been born yet.)

There is a cloud in the sky

where my father sleeps.

When he wakes up he will

want coffee and a smoke.

My mother will set fire to the statue, and

from deep inside her body, I will tell her

to start the coffee.

For even now,

I hear my father’s breathing change.