The Trailhead

Song of the Husbands
for Henry

All winter the kind husbands hover
like mortgaged angels. One
smells gasoline in his sleep, would
be my lover. They want me

to be well. Specimen, they say, and
mean endearment. I row
into the flood. The vodka

turns the lemon to crystal, the
carp turn the pond to shit and hunger,
the lingerie turns the trunkful
of lingerie into a special trunk.
And the husbands, the husbands

If asked they will install a water feature.

I tend my minor art,
I push my sorrow cart,
th...