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?