Tied to the bricks of a book, I sink blissfully into this evening's quiet,
my eyes frisking forth to follow the flow of dried black ink as my long fingers quickly flip to next pages where hours go missing like little white wealthy children, silently, as if they want the attention. Give your husband a spontaneous intermission, he says, fumbling for my face, his nose pressing my cheek for answers. Toast to clumsy comfort, I say, clinking the frames of my thick plastic glasses into the silver rims of his spectacles as we pout and press our lips like grandparents.
Later, when it should be time for sleeping, the stolen hours begin to sob and sweat for Spanish-speaking nannies, but I smother their mouths with grass stains
and continue to read.