This morning I put on my left hand
the gold ring with the gorgeous
hand-set diamonds. How foolish to box
myself in with that expensive purchase—I want
what I don't have, have what I then
don't want.
Mother sat on the lawn and cross-stitched,
sat and cross-stitched.
I write and rewrite, write and rewrite.
Jim's father tried him for misdeeds, the trials,
he said, worse than the beatings.
Jim was not a schizophrenic
but he hummed like one in movies,
tapping on the shared armrest.
At the coffee shop he suggested for our screening
he put his cards on the table:
"I used to drink." But we both loved
opera, I imagine for the same reasons.
But I'd never have slept with him, although
after listening to my new Kiri CD, which moved
us both, we tried sex, upstairs
on the brown corduroy couch from the office
I no longer rented to write in. I thought he'd cry—
his body was white and flabby and he had red chest hair.
Sweetly my Jim in worn cords vouchsafed
now he wouldn't touch anyone else.
Three months later he is dead.