AFTER THE MARRIAGE
Each headlong drop into sleep
with swallows. A twitch of shoulder
chopping onions with a measuring spoon.
of the limbs, asking, Are you
his beautiful girl fit snugly in his fist,
in my palm. Or if I dream of a picnic,
above the mouth of a well. Most nights,
is plains given way to sudden mountain ranges,
around tree limbs, the cuts
This poem was written after a few late-night reads of Charles Simic's The Voice at 3 A.M.