Roberto to His Wife

 

My moan is surprising,
rising each morning
in the room's corners.
You can feel dissipation
course my body,
like trains
running the rim of a peninsula,
each iron wheel
bumping a trestle
of bone.
Sometimes you jerk my limbs,
but this is not enough
to beat away
nostalgic distraction.
Every time you face me
I demand the mountains.
I demand the sea.
I demand the field behind our house
that blooms acorn flesh.

  — Joel Fry