We've managed to cover the carpets

with the sheets. We spend a long time

on this task, stretching, pressing the fabric,

passing our palms over creases.

When we're done the small room

seems to have swollen with light.

Soon the white sheets will fill with quiet

bodies. They'll slip off their shoes

before they enter. I'll shift around

on my knees to cover the exposed floor.

Someone will place his hand on my head:

an older relative who'll ask for my mother.

Someone will say, ‘All March it hasn't rained

and now the rain comes.’ We'll drink

sweet tea. She'll be tapping the glass:

only her knuckles illuminated.