I hear my husband on the phone downstairs,
not the exact words just a certain tone
that’s wafting upstairs—and right off I know,
he’s talking to his mother by the way
his voice relaxes, spreads like soft butter
on fresh bread. When he’s done, I hurry down
as if to get a taste of him still warm
with mother love. So different from the tone
of tightened purse strings when his ex-wife calls.
I stay upstairs, not wanting to be pulled in.
Or his daughters call, and his voice skips stones
across the pond of longing that wells up
after a week of not speaking with them.
From bed, I hear him sweet-talking the cat—
no words, just the same coaxing murmuring
he’s humming in my ear when we make love.
Me and the cats! I could be doing worse.
Or the clipped tone he uses to cut off
a telemarketer at supper time;
or a request to fund a dubious cause;
or the military yes-sir, no-sir tone
with which he passes information on
to people he dislikes; finally, the oh
so charming tone he dotes on my mother,
as if he has to prove himself worthy
to marry me. But we’re already wed,
flesh and bone, so all I have to hear
is the vibration of his voice downstairs
and instantly I know what he’s feeling
as if I felt that same feeling myself.