They call it sacrifice— imagine me a tiny poppy
on a field of green felt—brief blip of color,
limitless expanse. I’ve never felt foreign,
or like a lash in his eye. If it’s not love, it’s
very like. Most days it feels the same—
exacting—he tweezes the stray
thoughts from my speech, cleans up my
heart with a tortoiseshell comb.
Every lady should have such a man,
edging her lawn with a sharp rotary blade.
Year by year—let’s call it always—
editor and editrix. Engaged
against a flurry of typos, showered in
revisionist white out. I erase his crow’s feet,
buff away his frown. My head—he
yawns it open, scoops out dark foam,
yesses I’ve regretted, the tiny poppy
everyone sees flapping to pieces—
And so, we are growing taller, sweeter,
ratified in the glow of the big correction.