To a Young Bride
you can moan more completely, love,
& pierce the corded muscles of my chest
with a sentimental hook that grows
sharper & more compact
as the clock burns black on the plywood wall.
he sleeps far away from us now
eyes crushed shut by the fat
pucker of a foreman’s thumb.
he cannot cloud your palate with the stink of oil.
when he rubs the grit from his eyes
will the light zig-zag like an agate head
down the span of your heavy forehead
tipped - a teakwood mask -
above the seismic movement of his glands?
you open your face like a book
dropped into a gutter.
his paycheck rusts in its sheath, you say,
his workshoes cool on the floor...
he will never suspect what we do, love,
even if you shout it.
Page(s) 143
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