5.12 / December 2010

In our wedding vows, I’d beg

listen to this poem

that you withhold your scorn
when I throw up the contents
of our dinner on the rug
and close my eyes, to hide
from your reaction.

I’d ask for the volume
switch on the world,
and you’d hum
in my ear
when it got too quiet.

We’d vibrate.
I’d read The New Yorker out loud
and you’d make mm-ing sounds
while chewing cereal.

We’d pretend to work on weekends
and get touchy-feely at barbeques
and the plants would stay alive
because you’d water them.

Our morning sex
would always be the best kind.

We’d spoon while imagining
the real news is the spoof news
and we’d be nicer than we ever were
to people who are nice
and meaner than we ever were
to people who are mean

and sometimes you’d hold
my head between your palms
and not kiss me
just stare
like you’re reading.