To the Wife

Each time he brings me to ecstasy,
I hate myself. When he leaves,
he lets in thoughts of you, climbing the stairs
to your bedroom, changing into a slip,
maybe, or sweats, or his
pajamas. You, climbing into your– his
your– bed to read, something like Middlemarch
or Steinbeck– while you wait for him to return.
Or maybe you don’t
wait for him; maybe sleep, the sheets beckon
and you drift into dreams (what about?)
before he comes back
(he always comes back)
by morning. He’s lying
next to you after dreaming of me.

In the baking aisle at Kroger
I think of you, of the story he told
the time your son saw a black man
in the grocery store, shouted
“That guy’s skin is brown!”
while you considered the olive oil,
a different brand in each hand,
responding without pause, “Yes,
isn’t it beautiful?” while he– my he
stood speechless. I know why

he loves me: he understands
how I can hold a heart
with less care than you
held the olive oil. He and I, we’re the kind
who see a loose thread and pull,
who mess with a hangnail knowing
that’ll make it more painful. I don’t know

how to mend or fix something broken.
Each time I try to replace
a button, or re-stitch an unraveling seam,
I pierce myself threading the needle.
Not you– I’ve no doubt
you know how to nurture a plant
so its leaves remain green,
how to scrub out a stain
so the fabric stays spotless,
how to repair a ripped seam
so it never severs again.
I’d say I would trade
every quake of base pleasure
if I knew it would make me
like you, if I only believed
that were true.

Screed of a Middle-Class Urbanite

You can take your $2,500-per-month
one-bedroom apartment of your very own
and shove it up your
You can take me
to your $2,500 apartment for $2,500

I use the library, but I want to own the books
I pack my lunch, but I want to buy
the $12 cups of tiramisu at the cafe
I walk in only to look
see if I can satisfy my desire
with only my eyes– but no
I want

to shove the soaked ladyfingers in
my mouth I will gladly shove on
your mouth, gladly shove
my soaked lady fingers down your
as far deep as far down as you want

and after we’re done
I will shove my legs back
into the $3.99 thrifted jeans
that show off my priceless ass
as I stride out the door
of your $2,500 apartment
to gather my spoils
clutching the $2,500 you have shoved into
my outstretched hand.

Happy Hour

You drink bitter
Guiness; I, effervescent
vinho verde. We’ve broken
off into groups– some grabbed a table,
some lean elbows on high-tops; only you and I
managed to claim seats at the bar.
Away from the others, we fall back on gossip
about co-workers. Carly stands
at the other end of the bar, laughing.
You catch me watching her, say you won’t go
to her wedding. I look at you, questioning
without speaking. You say,
“Don’t you know he cheats on her?”

I say, “You’ve got to tell her. Somebody does.”
You fix your eyes on the mirror
behind the bar: “It’s not my place,”
your next swig an end-stop,
a conclusion. I watch your reflection
your eyes, dark like the beer you swallow.
Your mouth, on the lip of the glass. Your lips

on the skin of my shoulder. An alluring idea,
a terrible one. But this isn’t about us or

you, finishing your drink, setting down
your empty glass, asking me if I want
another. Yes, keep my cup full
please, keep my bed warm, loneliness tempered
with rumors of others’ anguish.
I want to believe I’m not alone