The best part of getting an apartment
is not to live in it, as newlyweds know,
but persuading curtains
to complement bedspreads, then
entering that strategic harmony,
aria of migratory birds,
windows patiently eyeing
how long it will last. Grandma
would sleep away television chatter
in the afternoon, a breeze
parting curtains to invite sunlight
on her skin, her body
another surface to conquer, another
shelf of want. Cupping
her hands in mine the way
a nest hoards its tenants, I can be
so deliberate as to fill
spaces she has emptied with herself.