Magician's Assistant Sawed in Two

From the fountain of drool that is dog
and the languor of bathrobes.
From the humility of cereal and fall weather
and the starless light of the fridge
where I stand, hero, god in underwear.
From where I ride in the car's worn lap, passing
into one future then another,
like the magician's assistant sawed
in two. From the pillow
which sets out my dreams like a rope of
paper dolls with fire.
From telling my students it was Wittgenstein
or Heidegger or quantum mechanics
that said anything we can imagine is possible, is.
From tubs of old soap,
the ankles of my future children,
tented ears of the cat.
From the suburbs of rust, houseplants
that won't die and my boyfriend who will.
From the great assembly of mushroom and wood,
the metronome of tennis courts,
electrocardiograms and
my voice made of the old skin of water and wire.
From the surprise of fingers touching down,
delivered on a bad day to the lowland of my back
and the chair pulled closer to mine inevitably,
we, with mouthfuls of food,
hurtling through a moment that has only
wind and open windows.
To be remembered for loving avocados
and fog. For loving four legs and not two.
To communicate like the secret language
of central air. To be a song
with broken arrows,
a woodstove making ash of yesterday's news.