It’s the day, our fiftieth anniversary, well on our way
to dying. The sky has turquoised, the porch is swept,
and we’re parched for each other like gravlax. We sip
lemon-green tea on the swing and play a game
of remember when. Maybe this is perfection, I fear,
and perfect doesn’t mean forever, after all. So I fumble
for your buckle and I take you— familiar like a house—
between both hands, and I shiver you for the thousandth
time. You unbutton my cardigan like a pianist,
and I show you my skin, speckled as wild cod, breasts soft
like two hammocks. We sway like this—the wind
of our whole lives pushing us forward.