A Husband to his Wife

By Kaitie O’Hare

I am jealous of the strawberry jam
that you lick from your finger
every Sunday before church.
I wish you were brown bread I could sweeten.

You fell asleep upright last night
with To Kill A Mockingbird on your chest,
and wet, plum polish on your toes that stained our sheets—
a half-hearted labor on 600 thread count.

On Thursdays, I remember your thin legs
and taut skin, the taste of Barcelona, and
your mother’s cigarettes on my clothes.
I don’t miss them,
but they still sit in my head.

September will discover me
hunched over a hand painted table at
Paper Moon Diner,
eating alone.

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