Forms

I live in marriage, which is a form
like sonnet or pagoda, which is a proclivity
like homosexuality except I live in marriage.
I live in a mixed marriage of a mediocre Jew
and a far gone, way lapsed Catholic and so
I live in mestizo land, not on a mesa but around

A table and on the table is a cut flower,
some spilled salt I throw over my shoulder,
salad every evening, a beer for him,
Kosher wine she tipples. I live in the sacred
terrain of Nuevo Mexico or the Pennsylvania turnpike,
you got to pay the toll.

Marriage is sex on a good day, peace on a quiet one.
Small wars on TV screens reflecting large bedroom
wars, dumped sock drawers or underwear respectfully
hung on the line, veiled by sheets so the neighbors
won’t see. He he he and she she she.
Marriage is my hallucination and my harmony.

It’s half addiction and part pill, my mission
and my church. I’m the rabbi and the wife,
the better and of course the worse. “Who else
would have us?” my old friends used to joke.
Now he’s dead and she’s counting change.
I’m carrying a loaded purse.

I’m watching the aging in slow mo unfold.
I live in matrimony. I give. I mostly take.
Try not to manipulate, though my hands
Won’t wear rings. In sickness less than health,
In making do and more debt than wealth.
In holy holy holy and books jamming on the shelf.

“I love you” means less than doing a chore,
I feed the dozen chickens, you hang the
Slamming slamming slamming screen door.