In
                 the tattoo
              parlor we talk about
           seahorses. Who
        knows how
      we got there,
     but I tell him
   its the male who
   gives birth. We find
   a video on my phone,
    watch one shoot hundreds
     of nameless, aimless babies
      out to sea. When he first came
       home to reconcile, he said, Let’s go
        get our wedding rings inked. Swore
          the rumored affair never happened.
           Foolish, how badly I wanted to believe
           him, how I could almost convince myself
            if I tried not to ask too many questions.
           When he called to make appointments, 
          he booked his own, claimed to forget
          about mine, then changed designs
         and rode the impulse to festoon
        all his knuckles instead. Just
       turned the entire plan
      on its head. But
     I’m tired and
    afraid to
  needle                          core.
  him                                  at his
 again,                                   hole
 so I sit                                   gaping
  there,                                  from the
    numb,                             of himself
     and watch                   versions
        him deliver     divergent
                       endless