for M. B.
I. First
Their first anniversary was the year
of the clock, as it was supposed to be,
as she found when she awakened
to the soft, even ticking near her pillow,
painted roses blooming around the paper
face like a wreath, a ring of girls’ hands.
It was this face she watched some nights,
listening to the low wind in the elms,
his quiet breathing, going over it
again—the sudden giddy rain of rice
stinging the long flight of steps,
her divine satin dress, her unveiled face.
II. Fourth
The new dishwasher that year was
necessary, top of the line, what she wanted.
It patiently ate the detritus of dinners
like a well-mannered dog. Secretly,
its warmth was what she liked best,
resting her stomach against the pulsing door
as she cooked, arranged flowers, daydreamed
at the counter. Maybe this benevolent beast
could stir a life within her like some
ritualistic massaging hand. Maybe it was
her good fortune. One day she fell asleep
leaning against it, woke up flushed.
III. Seventh
The letter opener marked the end
of her failure at motherhood—they just
gave up. Her eggs were no good, the doctor
told her, waiting while she sat imagining
her uterus a mixed grill platter, greasy
steam rising. Her anger frightened her;
she dropped things. Unwrapping the carved
ivory blade shaped like a Chinese dagger,
she was suddenly calm. She was armed.
This tool, smooth and white as young skin,
was his loving answer. She ran its blunt edge
across her tongue, picked up her mother’s letter.
IV. Twentieth
The porcelain vase was lovely, outrageously
expensive, filled with hyacinths he said were
the color of her eyes. The hand-painted lady,
reclining between a sleeping hound
and a frilly blonde suitor, looked sunburned,
she thought, wondering at the delicate waist,
the tiny hand waiting for a kiss. Life should be
like this—a bed of moss under a canopy
of willows, a steady burning gaze.
Waking from a dream of flying, she saw
its shape on the bureau, tall and slim,
square-shouldered, reassuring as a sentinel.
V. Twenty-fifth
Their fingers, interlocked across the table,
were woven tightly as the fine silver chains
the evening bag was made of, its fluid
heft a comfort in her palm. She could live
with a dress of silver mail, a soft
radiant sheath, perhaps with cap sleeves.
The bag was difficult to polish; she wore it
less and less, thinking of it guiltily as she
attacked the squadrons of candlesticks, platters,
vases, serving spoons she could finally
see her face in, faces by the dozen—flat,
oblong, stretched wide, none of them really hers.
VI. Thirty-fifth
This was the year of the jade and coral ring
engraved with their initials and 35, the colors
of the sea swimming in gold. Watching him
from his office doorway, his head bent
over his desk, she rubbed the cool stones
against her face, thought about how
he’d brought her countries, oceans,
treasures she lived among like a mermaid,
dusting the sand away, turning slowly
under the weight of water, trying to catch
slippery glowing fish, wanting armfuls of light
for him—out in the deep, coming back.