My Children Draw a Line Down My Body

curled up on each side as I read to them in my bed,
where I’ve crawled to be alone—but when

I sneak off they always know, and follow
like laws of physics. They draw the line with the tips

of their indexes from widow’s peak to umbilicus
like they’re about to gut a fish: they split me

into servings, one for each of them. None for me, none
for my husband. I say There’s enough of me to go around

but no one buys it. They redraw the line, fight over it,
encroach beyond the border of their territory

to wrap their arms around me, want the whole thing.
Both end up crying. I lie in two pieces and try

to remember the sea—