How to Say It
Lydia Copeland

The nurse said there would be bruises on my face the next day and maybe blood vessels broken in my eyes. "Do not be surprised," she said, "when you look in the mirror."
He was smaller than expected and looked like a tanned businessman fresh from Polly's Island. I had learned to spell his name and to say it, pronouncing letters that weren't there. It was high school English we spoke for months, about sky's candles and mothers who could split the Earth with the molten fire at their disposal.
Now he asks if the turtle feeds milk to its young, if the bears eat the bees. We notice that the morning moon above our apartment building is like a piece of cloud or someone's fingernail, and that the laundromat puts the town to sleep.
My husband changed his name that afternoon, while the redbuds were in bloom and people were coming home from work. He said millions of men had his name. But I only knew of a couple.

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