Affection pulses in my stomach
like a drumbeat in the hollow of a drum.
You photographed his hands:
pale, freckled, vulnerable fish
reaching for a pot. Spruce tips
went from green to seaweed yellow;
yeast took a couple anxious breaths
and sank again to learn its breathing new.
Jealousy is for immortals,
or at least Asuras: not for
creatures of seventy seasons,
barely long enough
to imagine love, let alone
unfold its heavy banners
and rig them on the walls. No.
What I have done, awkward as it is
will have to stand: I have a dying
to work out, and children to soothe.
There is no record to set straight:
began long before
the continents came adrift.