I can touch her hand because that's safe and comforting.
We hold hands all the time while we're both scrolling
and ignoring YouTube. Right and left joined in union.
Fingers interlaced, palm to palm, nothing's wrong.
The wrist is restrictive, the arm possessive
from ulna to bicep. I'm not that kind of prick.

Shoulder turns her eyes,
neck could force a kiss,
or summon the ghost
of a vivid choke-dream.
The chin infantilizes.
The cheek too direct.

Everything by the lips
is less a prelude to romance,
and more a parody
of imagines porn sent
out to the mainstream.
Fish hook or caress,
my night would be dead.

That leaves the head,
which can be like a pat
or coddling a brat.
Her hair gets ruined
and she'll lose sleep
to showering and preen.

The chest is off limits.
She reacts to the belly
like a cat; all attack.
Her ribs, no give.
Her pelvis, forget it.
Not her legs.
She'll think of how
she never shaves.
Not her calves.
Not her thighs,
Her feet might be sweet
but she'll fall
quick into dream.

The door opens.
She's home.
My chance at romance
here and soon gone.
Our peck hello
as empty as words.
I'm not scrolling
but her eyes
are down at her phone.

Fast typing means talking with a friend.
The remote flicks on the telly,
our empty fridge means dash again.
Her knees are up.
Both thumbs on the text.
My only option,
given to rest.

I join her on the couch and listen to her gasps.
Wishing I could join that conversation
or get her to notice how lonely this week has been.

Seven days counted,
none of them ending in love.
I remember
cause she came home
relieved that I'd cooked
and excited to drink.
Her hands starting effortless
what I can never begin.

We loved with a passion
I though would last days
but I came back smiling
to find her scrolling dismayed.
Another tragedy started.
Another reason it's wrong.
Another hour of her reacting.
My every comment, she nods,

That day last week could be this night,
only then I was hopeful,
when now I'm silent.
What once was her period
or a day without hope,
now happens in ovulation
and when she's delighting
in the high of a new drop.

I need to stop counting
the days she won't touch me.
I'm a man so my wants are frequent
but her desire is rare and special.
What could be magic
is better wasted on tissue.

Silent and kind is better
than the monsters
I resemble. So I assemble
my soldiers and send them
off to drown

in the pit
of my lonely
in the flush
of our marriage

but the porn girls are ugly
with their glossed skin
and missing limb--
one arm always holding
my eyes in her camera.
No matter how theatric
her ecstasy begins,
I know my flesh is cold
and my heart is here.

She's right there,
outside typing.
Blind to our life.
Lost in the world's
endless misery.

I go out and buy groceries
but I don't kiss or say 143.
I come back, she gripes.
I cook something fast
she chews and swipes.
Another school shooting.
Another call for her likes.

I don't say, "That's horrible,"
and finally she sees my eyes.
I'm angry at her and myself.
I'm angry I'm selfish
enough to put my junk
above the death of 21 kids,
but I can't love alone.
I can't be a perfect husband.

I know I need to leave
or continue to do her wrong,
and in my tears she tells me
that I'm being less than a man.
And I want to shout back.
And she snarls her disdain.

"Pity isn't sexy."

"I have no where to begin!"

I explain her boundaries,
I recount our fights.
She calls me over dramatic
and I push on bullheaded.

Then through tears she explains
that her body isn't her own
that every day it's judged
worth of sex or scorn.
But I'm not those strangers
who ogle. I'm not her
always belittling Mom.

I tell her, "I feel like a rapist
for wanting to touch my wife."
And my tears flow hot
but I don't care to stop it.
My chances of love are dead now.
My beloved thinks I'm terrible.

That wonderful woman I married
on that windy day in Spring,
remembers she loved my honesty
and hugs me tender, next to spaghetti.
One noodle's one my pants.

She grabs my hand and lets it lie.
"Did you know one noodle is
called a spaghetto," comes her joke.

"That sounds like where you
buy handies in Compton."

And we laugh and we cry.
And we can't stop the news-feed
in our minds. For the door is always
open and the patriarchy
purchased our every want.
Even when we're horny,
sex is twisted to their sight.

The way we love has no score,
it lacks the lighting of CGI.
My gut, her skin, our mumbling
won't be playing in their starry night.