Then the poems get personal and domestic.
Plague Time Ritual I. We no longer leave the apartment.
We cook or order in and eat amply together.
I make a pleasing borscht.
He a pleasing French onion soup.
Together we dance the long married kitchen dance.
He is slowly, steadily losing weight.
He jokes that he will not die.
He will grow smaller and smaller until I can carry him around
in a teacup, exhibit him to my friends.
There are a number of poems in this book in which
my husband makes jokes.
That's one of them.