At night he comes, "to perform a husband's duty,"
demands darkness, slinks away at sunrise,
doesn't even say a name; that's nuts.
You out of your skull? A palace and fountains of Chianti,
okay, but what he does for a living quien sabe?
Psyche, we love you, but blood tests? Pre-nup?
Power of attorney?
My every wish lives in him, gentle,
tender, my body's delight. On clouds we couch,
his voice weaving wondrous tales, and I love him
Psyche, Psyche, we want you happy,
but maybe there's a bad tattoo with Lorraine Lourdes
and Rita already bleached off, and a face to make
a squirrel spit up. Fresh from an Attica tunnel?
Why else the hiding?
It is a matter of faith.
Hello, earth to Psyche?
Baby, for our sake, play it safe -- while he sleeps,
with this candle, peek, and here, take Mace in case . . .
Hot wax on his golden shoulder. He woke,
Love, he said, cannot live without trust. He
See, see? Didn't we say he was a freak?
Buffalo, New York
5_Trope, Realpoetik, Exquisite Corpse, The Quarterly, Ontario Review
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