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.