27 years

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After Twenty-Seven Years of Marriage
Todd Davis
I imagine your soul is the texture of cantaloupe
as you bend over the tub to wash your hair.

100 million years is a long time to migrate, but
the warblers flying through the black gum trees

outside our window navigate the same space
as their ancestors. The cat, descended from Egypt,

sleeps in the crook of your legs
with the expectation that we will rub her

under the chin and down the bridge of her nose.
In the morning a storm sacrifices more than six

inches of rain, and now a cow bobs down the river,
rolling from side to side. You collected toy horses

as a child because your father was poor and drank away
the hay, the stall doors, the paddock fencing.

After correcting me about how your soul feels,
you feed me pink slices of watermelon.

I drown happily in the sweetness
of your company.

Photo by Isaac N.C. on Unsplash