April 3rd
The morning we unpacked the kitchen
He took me to a square rumpled patch
Where we heel-toed through cabbages
Until he found the one
Green and heavy
Like a Jurassic bud
And placed it on his neck.
Sometimes on moss-lit nights
I would prop myself up on an elbow
Look close at those waxy veins
Maybe peel a leaf back just a bit
With the thumb and a tender finger
Wondering what dreams and thoughts
How much more absurd could they be?
It was a bad day when he rolled awake
To find me over him
Contemplating Russian recipes
Unable to apologize for practicality and
Realizing that he had thought
The perfect marriage for a cabbage-headed man
Was a cold, dark wife.
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