I’d like to write a book of poems
where I ultimately apologize to my wife
for childishly complaining that my needs
weren’t met while she mourned her
father’s failed mind and eventual passing,
her nervous breakdown, and menopause.

But I won’t, unlikely to stitch
the stringy thing I broke back together.
It wasn’t, isn’t, won’t be mine to mend.
To give rest, harmony, and kind comfort
now, with venturing encouragement;
back into the world of bees, butterflies,
and swirly things. She’ll mend — as we do,
as I too have done.

If I wrote her a poem, I would celebrate
her strength and the admiration I have
in her abilities to feel forever deeply
those other things outside of our
relationship, where 75% of life is lived,
danced with, and fucked about.

The other poetry, I’ll write for myself.
My wife will write her own.
I’ll then listen. Listening is love.

OG Seattleite photographer, poet, and publisher now living in the oceanic estuary of a North Florida preserve. Art City Books & Ghost Forests = passion projects