What the trees reach for at night

when you’re not home. Who I really 

reach for when I touch you.

How this town becomes you,

and you it. Why we moved here.

 

How I try to shake you, like

a stalker I never see but can sense

is always there. What the women

at the bank and the supermarket 

say after seeing you cross 

the street with someone not me.

Why I never turn my back

on you anymore.

 

When you finally get home.

When I can move my mouth again,

so I can apologize to you. 

Why I stay with you.

When we wave to the neighbors

like any happy couple.

Why the mailman comes around

when he knows you’re not home,

what he promises me in whispers

and what we plan for the future.

 

Why I always smell like violets, 

even when you make me cry,

what I bought at the hardware store

in another town, why I paid with cash,

and why I smile, smile, 

smile as I break eggs for you, stir

cream into your strong coffee,

sit down across the table, and demurely 

cross my legs like a virgin.