In 27 Years

You were the girl with twigs in her hair
who once stole peaches from the neighbor's orchard
and ran, laughing, from her angry shouts and the honking geese
until your father's blackbird whistle called you home.

I hear these stories and, my God – what happened?
He left and peaches rotted,
blackbirds died.

Today you hardly ever step outside.
The world disgusts you: the price of gas, the smell of popcorn,
the blandness of imported strawberries.
The poplars were chopped down behind your childhood home.
You see demons in my shadow when I stay out past five p. m.

We clutch our teacups: china dolls wrapped up in paper,
complaining about rain we cannot feel.

Will I be you in twenty-seven years?

How could I leave you?
… Someone get me out of here.