He Corrects Her Past
She was not true to him all those years
before they met, so each time he reads
her journals, he marks the names of friends
she’s mentioned, then rips the page corners.
At night, in the mansion he bought her
to thank her for coming back, the cold
air clouds with their breath, and he lies hard
to the wall until she’s on the far
edge of dreams, then eases over, breathes
deep in her ear’s whorled shell, his hollows
spooning her bones, did you ever? New name
each night, and even though, every time,
she sighs back, never, he knows it’s because
she has learned how to lie in her sleep.