On television, the wife
fixes what’s broken
by hand.
Darning his socks,
she pushes her hips
to the dryer,
her chores completing
all at once.
And the husband, home
after commercial,
pumps and pumps
while her closing eyes
settle somewhere
over his shoulders,
waiting for flight.
Most nights, after
watching, I press myself
to myself
in the empty marriage
bed, flattened
and shaking,
during the winter
of our first year.
Without you, I become
both groom and bride:
one hand a mender,
one hand a liar.