Even though you wear petite,
I should have known.
The way you hold your head,
the focused movement,
thrift in speech —
All were clues.
When you muscled the case of wine
into the trunk while
I was calling, “Wait! Wait!”
When you dug up the whole garden
with a rusty shovel.
When you dragged the garbage bins
up the driveway two by two —
I realized that twins would be no problem.
You’d suckle one at each breast
while chewing leather to downy softness
for me to wear on winter hunts.
You’d make our autumn fire,
spinning one stick on another.
You’d keep it going throughout the winter
to cozy up our share of cave.
You’d heat up water with hot rocks
and use the waiting time
to ply your awl for boots.
You’d swat the kids and laugh.
You’d be ever looking out
for fat and protein. And so in spring
you’d heft a load, and off we’d walk
to where the fish were running.
I’d use up secret hours
to make a necklace from
a thousand shells I’d found
and managed to hide from you.