I Always Wanted a Wife

He took a childlike pleasure in devouring
good meals, in tearing the paper from presents,
in praise, in turning his back to me
so I could work out the knots. Sometimes,
entering the room where I read or typed,
he’d say in one of his funny voices,
I always wanted a wife, and kiss the top
of my head. He had many funny voices,
and funny faces he’d put on, funny
songs he’d invent. I didn’t mean to
eat your berries, he’d sing after eating
all the blackberries I’d been saving
for breakfast, and I couldn’t be mad then
because he’d made me laugh.
He had eyes like lacquered mahogany,
heavy lids, dark lashes, a mole on his left
clavicle—or was it the right? 
When he smiled, his whole face smiled,
like a lamp clicking on only for me.
He’d stay awake till 3 am,
reading Kierkegaard or René Girard and eating
pomegranates—the rinds and piths of which
he’d leave in a bowl on the coffee table,
along with a good tea towel he’d stained
red with the juice, and his absent-
mindedness was endearing enough
that I never kept mad for long.
He’d stay awake late practicing
the moonwalk in boxers and socks.
He’d stay awake learning card tricks
and vanishing coins. How I loved
his originality, his fine mind! How he’d
make me laugh. He’d stay awake flirting
with other women online. Or he’d stay
awake till four and come to bed
wanting sex, though I had to be up
for work at six. It pleased me
to please him. It took a long time
to understand about the anger
that I’d dropped like a bucket
down a deep well. I had to haul it up
hand over hand to see it, and even then,
when I saw what it was, it took a long time
for me to recognize it was mine.