I remembered thinking how it was like wrapping fruit trees so that they’d survive the winter,
which made me giggle
and she’d ask what was so funny while I hovered over her.
I threw myself at it like a task, like shoveling snow. I was laughing at a problem.
She did it too. It was all
forced. And awkward.
And always the same. All the noises were artificial. She would do a great imitation
of a trout,
trapped on land and flopping, flopping, straining against the air.
A lot of the time it wouldn’t come off.
For either of us.
We would wind up exhausted. Chafed. Out of breath and irritated
by the other’s presence.
It ended
like these things usually end; badly, real sour,
but easy; not much yelling, just curses
and name calling, staring at each other, hating with more emotion than we had ever found when undressed together. In my head
I nicknamed her Cold Fish.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
most likely what your new woman calls you- if.. you're still doin' what you're doin'... and still gettin' what you're gettin'.