That there was a story of a girl
who changed into a tree to save herself
from love, the woman now recalls,
standing in the doorway of her guest
bedroom, staring at her son. It’s Friday,
late afternoon: the time during which
their son usually appeared, hair
stuck in greasy feathers to his scalp,
leaving a trail of small and large
things missing behind him: a silver
salt shaker, a laptop tablet, so that even now
her husband’s mouth hardens
whenever their son’s name is mentioned.
