"She Makes a List for the Night's Replay"
That time he buried her legs in the sand in South Carolina
and said, "Now I've got you."
That time he flirted with another woman
at the restaurant, and she cried but hadn't wanted to.
How he got on his knees and dramatically begged until she
laughed.
The way he picked bits of fuzz off her sweater and coats,
meticulous love.
His annoying obsession with canned soups and Manwich,
maroon and red cans stacked in the garage, "just in case."
The same five flannels followed by the same five flannels.
That time they ordered oysters in Orange Beach, Alabama,
and they were so--
there was no other word for it--
gargantuan.
They both said the word, gargantuan.
They couldn't eat the oysters.
They put hot sauce on Saltines and drank clearish beer
instead.
That time the car broke down in the parking lot
of the Bob Evans, the smoke coming out of the hood.
How broke they were.
How somehow she had made him laugh while they waited
for the tow truck they'd put on the already bloated credit
card.
The way her mother once asked, if he was romantic.
"No," she said proudly.
How at night in their cool bedroom with the overhead fan
on, even in winter, they held hands as they went to sleep.
How she told him once, "I like that we hold hands at night."
How he had smiled sleepily and said, "Yes, like the Titanic."
How now when she sleeps, there is always the image
of a ship sinking beneath them.
She shouldn't find it comforting, but she does.