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For My Lover, Returning to Her Husband

               After Anne Sexton

He is all there.
Disney promises,
fairy tales,
a cameo carved out of soap.

He has always been there.
Buff and bench-pressed,
primped, posed,
safe under glass.

I was an indulgence.
Cashmere draped across your thighs,
brownie binge after years of salad,
sweet cling peaches in February.

His piece fits your puzzle,
a perfect match. You see
to the girls, the dog,
the job, the mop,

he writes checks
that buy the best,
orders the chaos
you call your life,

marked by a Swiss watch
that minds minutes,
but not children
he seeded—

round and female,
your body filled with life
he put there,
cocky as God.

I give you back.
I give you permission—
for the lava inside him,
spewing on your thighs,

for the coward in him,
the drinker, the liar,
the teller of secrets
who wanted to watch,
for the pale scar on his nose,
for the prize that is his face,
for his strong man’s arms
and seven white shirts,

for the vasectomy,
for the caretaker in you
who will consider compromise
when he burrows beneath you

and tugs on the brown
ribbons of your hair
to tie you up, tie you
to him, captive.

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