I've made love to you three
times a week for ten years,
which is one thousand five hundred sixty
nights of tangled sheets,
and bunched up nightgowns
at the foot of the bed.
I've introduced you as my husband
at twenty Christmas parties while
you lounged in the same dress shoes
you wore when you married me.
I've made three thousand six hundred fifty
fried eggs for you, sunny side up.
I've made a child out of your
touches in the dark.
At night I roll over in the bed
and close my eyes;
I wonder if I could describe
your body if a plane went down.
I try to remember the scar on your brow,
the roadrunner tattooed on your ankle,
the biopsy declivity on your left breast;
but in the darkness,
I'm no longer sure if it was left or right.
I fear you would go unidentified --
but when morning comes,
there are your grey eyes in our son's face,
and your freckles in a star
on his left shoulder.