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?