It is possible
that no husband really loves his wife.
Too easy it is to mistake
their scheduled arrivals and departures, their constancy,
for something greater than the dim outcroppings
When, entrapped again
in the fervent throes of habit,
we cry, “Do you love me?”
they answer yes.
are faultless, restrained.
They sleep deeply,
and, in the morning, scraping ashes from the stove,
only rarely do they forget to speak.
[forthcoming in Same Old Story (CavanKerry Press, 2014)/]