are very close
but there are some things
I can never tell her.
This poem is one of those things.
I can’t tell her about this poem
because that would lead
to more questions.
The answers to these questions
would burrow deep under the surface
until we’re both staring
at an open wound
with the roiling magma below.
No — the best thing
is to keep this safe, somewhere
my wife will never find it. Saved
on this laptop, perhaps;
the laptop I know we share.
