My mother-in-law 
finds seventeen ways
to squeeze mention of him
into an hour’s conversation
when we visit in her kitchen
for lemonade and forkfuls 
of raspberry crisp
Giddy as a schoolgirl
who just got asked
to go steady by the boy
she’s long had a crush on
his name a melody the breeze 
carries through the screen
sweet as summer itself
                        

while you’re seated on her deck
outside the kitchen holding 
breakfast bowls.
Pacific Northwest sun shines,
toes bare for the first time in six 
months, and she says she’d see 
this other boyfriend except
he is spending today with his
other girlfriend
 
so you ask why did he get married
if he wants to spend his days with
other girlfriends?
Your daughter winces for aren’t you 
Midwest-vanilla-beige wedlocked
with her dad for three decades!
Well, someday, like J, she and her
primary K might marry too, she claims.
Show that they love each other best
(and for the tax breaks and hospital
rights), but how can she open her heart
to J when she knows he won’t always
be there for her?
 
Your daughter says since she has K, 
she doesn’t want always with J.
She is pulling a brush in long strokes
through her glossy hair, slim arms 
still tan from last summer’s beaches.
And if K is with HIS other girlfriend,
I still have L.
L. The man she had you come meet
at the café the night before, the man 
whose speech was peppered with “we’s” 
because he lives with the mother of his son.
You see how well this all works, Mom?
 
What you see is how crowded this deck
has become with denim knees, buckled
boots, lowered hat brims, hands cupping 
hips, arms braced by shoulders - calendars  
so clotted with names that they’re sliding 
off walls from the weight of the ink. 
 
Your daughter says cheating isn’t part 
of their lexicon. Nor is belonging or mine.
She is pulling loose hair from the bristles
of her brush in a feathery motion, opening 
her palm to the sky so the breeze can catch
and carry each strand away.