Love
You put hot water in my
coffee mug before the coffeeyou fold my underwear
put it in neat stackssometimes, in the winter, you
start my car before work, or I yoursyou make dinner, set my up my plate,
perfectly. I do the dishes.you make the bed for both of us
even if I’ve already triedI never met your parents, we talked as we
sold your dad’s spare garage door tracksYou were beautifully foreign to me
and still are, but you’re not.I rub your shoulder while you’re driving
You change lanes, a moansubtracting away a few minutes of
holding our third childSometimes I’m wrong to you
I fester about it, it haunts methen I hear you on the phone say,
my insides invert
“sweetie” as a natural part of your speech
I can breathe right again