At the wedding he says

I took my wife off the pill, it wasn’t

easy. I say, Oh
that’s terrible. (Imagine being a wife,

being taken, taking

off somehow, what
kind of weight

I don’t know—      The men at work

said: We’re talking
about you, not to you.

They were talking

of how best
to tame a reckless body

(their daughters’ irregular,

bloodied, not abiding—)
They spoke over my lunch.

I know swinging dicks—

I know to skip the sugar
pills, how to hoax myself.

The man at work said, Think

logically, like I’d lost
my head & not my books.

The skip bin opened

to the length 
of half my living

room. It was oddly full

with warmth & admiration—
Sometimes it’s hard to break

habits of hoarding

& spite.
At the wedding

the music swings up

in angles, lit.
A tiny bride & groom

on the dancefloor, the cake;

a small song turning its way out.