If when my hubby is sleeping
and the baby and Vanessa
are sleeping
and the sun is a yellow-gray Frisbee
in nets of fog
caught in burled trees—
If I in my kitchen
wrote poems unceasingly
at my table
twirling my hair round my finger
and whispering softly to my old self:
“I am awake now, awake.
I have always been awake,
it is just so!”
If I admire my fingers, their grip,
the muscle in my arm, breasts
full with uncried for milk—

Who is to say I am not
the fortunate creator of my household?