At the Airbnb in Carqueiranne, our king bed’s actually two
mechanical singles scooched together. With remotes, we govern
how high to raise his feet, my arms, entire bodies
butt-down birds inside plush porcelain cups. Sure, we have sex.
But mostly we giggle, or at the café accidentally order
half a dozen espressos, return to the apartment frizzy-frizzy.
Even so, whatever river this is, it’s calm. It’s cataracted.
Cellophaned. First grade, my best friend’s dad carried his pistol
inside the guest bathroom, never left. I’m ashamed
to admit that for most of elementary school I wondered,
whenever witnessing the mom slathering biscuits
with I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter, what she’d done wrong.
Sometimes, mid-terror, his eyes metallic-consequence wide,
my husband screams for his flashlight, knocks one fist against
the mid-century bedside table his father built for our home.
Where’s the gear, where’s the fire, who lost the fucking batteries.
It is not entirely a mistake, believing him awake.
Part of his body lives inside a city I’ve never explored
forever. My favorite poet studied classical piano at university,
hated the stage, opted instead to perform for the campus swim team.
I like to remember the way, when nervous, she knocks
one fist against her cardigan pocket, making sure a soft pack
of smokes is still inside. I like to imagine a pool, heated
and filled with salt, where every bit of us floats.