Once a week at lunch with coworkers
from Japan and Malaysia, Hong Kong and Korea.
Once a week over beers with the guys
after volleyball at the Y.
Once a month at a potluck dinner party
for old pals and new neighbors, mismatched
platters and plates on the table. We crowd together
and take comfort in the buttress of a sweatered arm.
Chairs wedged next to bookshelves.
Our faces candle-lit in the Minnesota night —
We are in our thirties
and pausing to eat:
the bread someone learned how to bake,
a salad of pears and warm chevre,
desserts we don’t think we should taste.
We pass on one thing after another:
the parmesan, the butter,
the promotion.
We’re buying houses
and trying to get pregnant.
We’re due for a raise
and need more insurance.
We are hairless
from the chemotherapy.
We’re stocking the cupboards.
We have surgery scheduled.
We are without a country
and waiting
for a green card
or the next election.
We carry divorce papers and a pen
in the side pocket of a messenger bag.
We’re moving again.
We’re rethinking our investments.