The body can accommodate its longing
            up to the size of a fist.
Its post-come sigh weighs more

            than most dead stars.
The husband no longer
imagines, and this model glitters

            (even in darkness).
The wanting body can learn to
take an arm, a bottle—

            anything warmer
            /anything whole.

We live on the slope of our desire
            and tumble down.

The wife rips a hole in the bed-sheet
            with her teeth.
The husband won’t open up
           
            his hands.
The wife orbits her quiet world
warped by the strength of her hunger,

            her hand in the bathwater
            /her eyes on the stars.

How else will she remember she’s alive
but to draw life deep inside her,
            make it twist.