So she runs into the closet
and hides behind the long
clothes in the corner—bathrobes,
black dresses, a velvet skirt worn only once.
She squats there, pink sock feet
and chubby legs the only parts
of her that I can see.
I pretend that I am searching
for her, rummaging
in bathroom drawers, “Vivian,”
I call toward the toothbrush,
“Vivian, where are you?” And Vivian
pumps her knees and giggles,
thrilled to be concealed.
Until she’s done. And then
she wants, right now, to be discovered.
This old heart is quite the same—
after years of crouching in the corner,
it’s tired of the game and
it’s ready, please, to come out
of hiding, ready to be found.
