You think it’s absurd when I put my fingers under our only lampshade and
touch the flesh of my finger to the yellow. It’s only then you will yell –
you love me and my skin is burning and I am MAD
the gold band on your left ring finger has only given you a headache
it is SEVEN AM. There are always other excuses, Henry: you Must Consider the Time.
Daily: as I watch the news and eggs fry and a million other lazy men lay in bed, with wives who don’t touch their breakfasts,
you say it because you’re upset and you will never mean it, you swear. You don’t even mean it in your sleep, when I linger over you, ready to grasp the moon of your body. I pluck you from the bed, my giant rock, my hunk of cheese, my saviour.
I can’t think of a time when I didn’t turn or acknowledge your remarks, except today – my eyes, transfixed, were on sweltering fingers and I tried to take stock of my accomplishments– it’s a Tuesday in October, 7:05 AM, and all four are on the bulb. And it’s glowing. You hold your breath and I haggardly count bodies of water.
Huron, Ontario, Michigan.
You tell me you love me as if I’ll forget in the space between 3 and 4.