Lovesong with A Hairshirt

While the cat licks my hands
as if they are an extension
of her own small body
(her love is critical and harsh),

you eye your watch,
wondering how many
more years
you have to stay with me
before they won’t call you
a quitter.

You laugh with the babysitter,
hand her a small check.
I can sense warmth radiating
off of her, like a package
fresh off the postal truck
in the summer.
I admire her pale hinges,
silent muscles,
secret organs.

I want to have daughters
wrapped up in church
dresses, bound with
large ribbons. I want
to attend
their pizza parties
and see the red lipstick
on the muzzles of their teachers.

Two deer are in the median
on the way home,
stuck
with metal between them
and their fleecy dens,
in a place they were
never supposed to be.
To think, there are places
we couldn’t reach if we tried.