I’ve already let him
walk across the shallow water
of my bedroom,
memorize the psalms
in my skull. We are married
eight months. I am scared
to call him husband. Holding cell,
steel mesh or concrete. Even
the smallest stones turned to bread.
We staple together
bank statements, tax returns,
my hair woven with his,
x-rays of our lungs,
fingerprints, love letters.
The woman in this office
guards the door. We wait
in small plastic chairs.
It is still cold outside.
I think of our nephew. I think
I wore the wrong outfit.
I wish I had paid
those parking tickets.
I forgot his favorite color.
What is his favorite color?