I lie naked on the carpet
the children asleep in the bedroom.
My husband wants to make love to me.
He is beautiful: golden hair, sloped back.
I am tired. Thirty-five years
of wanting, having, losing.
The sunflower does its job, pressing against the windowpane.
Night is long and arduous.
Tonight, I will have nightmares about leaving my children home alone.
The roads will turn to water as I run to them.
In the dream, the baby doesn’t cry for milk.
He sleeps on top of the six-year old
who reassures me on the phone that all is well.
How I would like to believe–
I am a well
of patience. I well
with tears. I am rescued
from the well. My well
runneth. Enter me.

Wendy Wisner