We’re on the bed she lies
under the covers, and I
sit on the edge, sorting threads
from the sewing box.
“Tell me about your lover,” I say.

She is sleepy and speaks in blurs
but loves
to relive his flesh in words:
“His body’s silky, like a girl’ s
slender and soft and kind,
gentle the way my husband
should have been.”

She reaches for my hand
and sleeps. I leave, weeping
for what love
could be, knowing
what I would have done
had I been he.

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