I don’t know how people stay married
without sex. How they can stand their mates
day in, day out, the irritations grating
like sand under the band of your bathing suit
when you’re sunburned and greasy and one kid
doesn’t want to leave and the other one’s crabbing,
there’s no more juice and too much to carry to the car.
How could they tolerate it
week after week—the way he does the laundry,
mixing darks and lights, how he dangles
spaghetti from his mouth and chomps
along the strands like a cow, or when she
repeats what she read in the paper, as though
she thought of it herself, doesn’t answer
when he speaks, or gets lost
going someplace she’s been twenty times before.
How can couples bear
each other without the glory
of their bodies rising up like whales, breaking
the surface in a glossy arc,
finding each other in the long smooth flanks,
hidden coves, the gift of sound rushing
from their throats like spray.
What could make them appreciate
each other enough to stay without
this ocean that smooths the crumpled beach,
leveling the ground again.