The body can accommodate its longing
up to the size of a fist.
Its post-come sigh weighs more
than most dead stars.
The husband no longer
imagines, and this model glitters
(even in darkness).
The wanting body can learn to
take an arm, a bottle—
We live on the slope of our desire
and tumble down.
The wife rips a hole in the bed-sheet
with her teeth.
The husband won’t open up
The wife orbits her quiet world
warped by the strength of her hunger,
her hand in the bathwater
/her eyes on the stars.
How else will she remember she’s alive
but to draw life deep inside her,
make it twist.