The man can only find words / to help his wife;
he is unaccomplished / in so many ways that are
useful to the world. / And sometimes he can’t
even do that, but here, maybe, are these words /
that stand for his hopes for her, for them, for
the boy, / and the boy’s sibling who may come
still. Here are these flowers / that stand for
the medicine meant to renew her / appetite, to
keep her from sickness’s wither. He can’t stand
it, / but of course he does. Everything must have
meaning, / each thing must stand for something if
only / he’d take the time to see it all answered.
He says to the
deliveryman, / Thank you for the beautiful vials
you’ve brought her; she’ll take / a few dozen
more, however many gets her to see / the end
of all this, which is the only time to make it
mean. / He is willing to go down on his knees /
before who might have insights and answers, who
might / take what’s burning the man inside and
quench it. / This is the woman he loves. This is
the way / he knows to love her.
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