When sleep won’t come,  

I am not finished with the poem
that begs to be written
so I rise to darkness,
putting aside the chance
to dream of you.  

It is not the ending of the poem
with which I am smitten;
it is the beginning’s untidiness,
the hook I cannot dangle; it is not romance
that is lacking; it is you.                                        
The poem   

is this picture I have of you
that endures.
You bend over the sink.
You do not see my smile.  

I do not speak
though I wonder why
you are up so early
& our daughter sleeps near me.  

I lust after your body.
I feel no shame.
When you wipe shampoo
from your eyelids, you own me.  

You wrap a towel around your head.
You see me as though for the first time.
Words race across the page of my heart.
You come to me.  

You place our daughter to the right,
making room for yourself.
You put your head on my shoulder.
You whisper into my ear:  

“I hate you now;
I will hate you forever.”
You get up; return to the bathroom,
& close the door.