She liked to bite fingers.
She braided my beard.
Her nose and big toe were square.
Her tresses were thirteen years long.
She devoured the translation like a cheeseburger
and refused to understand me.
She spent her paycheck
on clothes she bought on layaway
while she was one unemployed
good dresser who had to do something.
She said Kayak poetry review
looked like a Sunday school booklet
with a cannon on the cover.
She didn’t like the antique silver fork
with the engraved W
I’d bought for a dime
– the yellowed marriage
whose bride was no doubt long dead
held no treasure in her eyes.
Why else would we have it?
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