The happiest women, like the happiest nations, have no history.
So she landed in the kitchen
softly by the sink, her hands
in dishwater, a small joy, and to dry them
with this towel found on the table.
She wanders, opens doors:
the one bathroom, two closets
and with no skeletons, no shadows
only dresses, a bathrobe, the children’s room
and look: two daughters, happy daughters
examining with delight
the bones of their small hands
the garden prints on their cotton dresses.
And a pop song on the radio, pillows
on the bed, milk in the ice box, boxes
of cereal, a basket of laundry, a dining table
with stacks of bills.
And look through the window
the back yard—an impossible green
and a glittering breeze
in trees she cannot name.