Perched on the butt-cold tub edge,

I watch him scrape stubble from his face.

Tears wash off curses; soap films over excuses.

The mirror is spattered as if set under a sprinkler,

the cloudy beads of cold water set hard in spots.

He nicks the skin beneath his ear,

and a fat red drop slips down the curve

of his cheekbone and lands on his neck.

The paper drowned the bed;

the notices and yellow past due flyers

fluttered over the pillows,

and the gummy points of return envelopes

stuck to the headboard

as we crouched beneath

our common debt sentence.

We waked all night in the sagging double bed,

without touching or even brushing

the sleeves of our pajamas, in vigilant resentment

--at least the baby slept.

As if a rub or caress would cost us

and the interest on it accumulate for months and years

and lifespans until somehow—how?—it got paid off.

All night we lay on our sides facing away,

like the twined wings of a pinned butterfly.

2005