Theo tells me to go to Lowe’s, but what does he know?
Theo is fatalistic, with a temper. He’s not perfect,
but he’s the god I have. On my desk
I keep pieces of a puzzle I’ve never assembled
into the famous painting of balled-up stars blistering
an indigo sky. This is not Theo’s sky.
I’ve never tried to put it together because the puzzle is only
30 pieces, handmade in France with ♥, it says, and my joy will be over
as soon as it’s begun—a fact sadder
than I mean for it to be. I wish you’d come over
with cake cut into thick layers on a Sunday. I wish you’d come over
and dampen the corner pieces with wet hands, mold the sky into a river,
a topography I can hold. I wish I knew to wish for something more
but this poem is ending and it’s too late
to wish for more wishes. If I know Theo, he won’t relent.
One wish is all I get, the river
all I want.