Your Sounds, Or a Celebration of My Husband

By Louie Crew

At dawn you jiggled the commode plunger three times
to stop the all-night gurgle, then plopped your sandals
after you'd tiptoed carefully back to bed,
your skin smoothing across the slippery sheen of the sheets.
You breathed the long breaths of sleep again.
I lay wide awake, as if 3 bedsprings had sprung, like sanctus bells.

You whisked your eggs against the copper bowl
like a professional chef, scorning my scrambler's fork
with which I scraped my two eggs in a clean cereal bowl.

Dutifully you let the choked engine warm up
before you crunched out the snow-filled drive.

Home from your weight-lifting class,
you rushed upstairs tike a dainty schoolgirl
who's late to class but doesn't want to explain
that she's having her first period.
Three jiggles again and you bounded back
to punch Miss Microwave's loud fan
as she sizzled our Paschal lamb.

I listened to your heart, pressing my ear
against a vessel in your noisy stomach.
You listened to "The jeffersons." I dozed.

You slid the medicine cabinet open,
sprayed the room, clipped your nails,
cleared your throat, gargled.
You slid the cabinet closed.

You clicked out the light. The bed squeaked.
I stopped snoring to touch your arm.
Neither moved nor said a word for the 15 minutes
before we slept.