Jesse Glass

TO A YOUNG BRIDE

you can moan more completely, love,
& pierce the corded muscles of my chest
with a sentimental hook that grows
sharper & more compact
as the clock breaks down on the plywood wall.

he sleeps far away from us now
eyes crushed shut by the black
pucker of a foreman's thumb.

he cannot cloud your palate with the stink of oil.

when he rubs the grit from his eyes
will the light zig-zag like a blood bead
down the span of your heavy forehead
tipped--a teakwood mask--
above the seismic movement of his glands?

you open your face like a book
dropped into a gutter,

his paycheck rusts in its sheath, you say,
his workshoes cool on the floor...

he will never suspect what we do, love,
even if you shout it.