Days grow longer, she finds her husband
wandering around a neighbor’s back yard
after dusk. I’m on my way to Boise, he says.
No mention this time about jumping out of a hatch
in the moon. She gets him home, tucks him in.
He grabs her hand, Do you understand
the importance of keeping death
on the left side of the bed?
Late summer, he leaves a forty dollar tip
for a lunch of half that amount. He reads
for thirty-six hours straight – Edison, Ford,
Lindberg, and Firestone – says, Hymens
and hymnals protect holy stuff
sweet to the ears and to the touch.
Days shorten, sun sits low in the sky. He declares,
I need to check my mushroom crop, crawls
under the bed. She locks the dead bolt,
hides the key. He finds it, opens the front
door, runs out naked in a rain storm, curls up
under a hydrangea bush. She takes his arm,
tries to pull him up from the muck.
He bites her hand.