The Family

Inside the Russian woman there's
a carved doll,
red and yellow to match her,
with its own child inside.
The smallest, light as a salt shaker,
holds nothing
but a finger's breadth of emptiness.

Every morning we are lifted
out of each other,
arms stiff at our sides.
In the shock of daylight
we see our own
varnished faces everywhere.

At night we drop back
into each other's darkness.
A tight round sky
closes over us
like a candle snuffer.

We sleep
staring at the inside.