Couldn't count on five hands the old houses
so neglected that two pipes totally fuse together
I've seen. I would work those joints damn near
forever, as a younger plumber, grunt'n'a monkey
wrench over bad couplings until they give
too much. My parents never bothered with shit
in marriage, just stuck it out. Point is, I always
felt bondingas possible breaking. Pleasure/
pressure, you know? After separating, I skewed
absurd, like cursing a bag of frozen peas for being
cold. I'd lay in the bed she and I had shared,
staring at the cap-less mascara tube she left
beside the dresser, trying not to pass out,
lightweight as I am, back to drinking after Paul
shoved a picture of his stripped finger in my face
when he saw me checking out at the Gerbs.
He'd slipped, climbing one of them ceiling-high
backstock shelves to grab a box of Pampers on
a nightshift, and his ring caught. I'd lay in bed,
saying drunkly, ain't that just like degloving, Paul,
that solid vow you carried around shaving you
sharp like some makeshift tent stick, dammit—
except worse 'cause now there's nothing left
to stake down, the mascara's long bled and gone
from the stem, no eyelashes remain to speak of,
and Paul, I said, ain't it unbearable to be love's
roughly squared bone.