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.