by Wendy Mnookin

**Wendy Mnookin**

My love, with his binoculars 

and advanced degrees, has traipsed us all 

to the Galapagos, where we scramble 

up rocky landings, try to shield ourselves

from sun. We’re here to study finches, 

the color of their feathers, their important beaks. 

I want to go home 

and be with him alone in our own yard, 

rain soaking the grass and making it slippery. 

I want him to balance on one foot 

like the flightless cormorant

while the downpour bends long-necked sunflowers,

thin blue birds flaunt their energy and purpose,  

and the children are long gone—joy

so strong, I might just call it grief.