I have yet to ponder marriage,
though, I know how I love my wife.
I wake beside inspiration
and I see she is aesthetic.
Her teeth and tongue rattle inside
the mouth I often press against
with lips made for loving my wife.
I trust the colors she chooses
can fit in the rooms as we do,
as her knowledge does in the crook
of my still bones, over my pulse.
I look down and I love my wife.
She touches me and I know why.
On her boulevard spine I trace
the shadows with my fingerprints,
the vertebrae with my knuckles.
These hands are for loving my wife.
She knows how she’s viewed in my eyes.
No, her image could never fade
because how would I live without
seeing the woman who guides me?
Each day I’m in love with my wife.
She watches me when I shower—
after smoothing dry my body,
knots the towel around my waist.
She is conclusive in her moves.
I love my wife and how bastard
jumps from her lips, though, she does not
want it to land. I often wake
with a dry mouth: There is a glass
of water placed on the nightstand.
Oh, I know why I love my wife.
As I swallow, she cradles me,
pulling me closer with pale arms.
She breathes onto my nape, and she
holds me in her lungs with her day,
and I know how to love my wife.
She speaks and is honest with me
regarding our togetherness.
I am calm when she shouts. She cries
and offers an apology.
Sure eyes keep me loving my wife.
If for some reason I am gone
she will raise our children alone
with the grace of her own mother—
to whom my happiness is owed—
for she is why I love my wife.
When I am bothered by my self,
she grabs me by my cheeks and says
you’re all I never knew I’d need
and my depression is lifted.
See, how could I not love my wife?
Her fine dresses hang like branches,
but her skin is polished, not bark.
I eye the way she sways at night
and wish to own mounted canvas.
Come, please, look at my lovely wife.
I am led by her open palm
and I trust she can guide me home,
where we are devoted nightly,
where she cleans me of my wrongings,
where I know how to love my wife.
The way she whispers to me hushed
tones of gratitude, giving more
than I could ever ask of her,
and how she listens when I speak.
I hear myself loving my wife.
Her brilliance—my constant beacon—
aligns me when I am broken
like a man banging his chest drum,
beating his heart to a rhythm
as I sing of loving my wife.
She is resilient to a fault
and longs to improve just this one.
So, still, I say I adore you
to keep her there in the mornings
when I will tell my wife I love her.