Husband sounds so Anglo-Saxon, doesn’t it?
Old-world primitive, almost as if I married him
to hold onto something at night
under a prickly hide,
safe beside the fire he built,
sharing mead and stories of spring
and not for the soothing baritone of his bedroom voice
reading a poem—

           as if it had nothing to do with the way
           he tried to light
           our cigarettes with the candle on the table
           and singed his eyebrows—
           as if the smell of sandalwood
           doesn’t bring him back to me,
           all warm and singing
           and rolling his meatballs—
           as if the strains of The Firebird don’t summon him,
           clutching my hand to pound out the notes on his knee.

So much more he was than the sum of the parts
that husband evokes. More than lawn-mowing,
burying our dead pets and paying bills
and complaining of lights left on. He was song
and drinks before dinner, washing the car in summer,
holiday boxer shorts and falling out of canoes.
A piece of work, a work of art, a story,
lying awake at night wondering odd things:
           Do atoms have memory?
           Where does Basque begin?
           And what did Eliot really mean
           by “April is the cruellest month”?
           I can hear him laugh to himself,
           Not January? Not March?

Because April is sweet-smelling of blooming jasmine,
soft nights and driving home with flowers to plant
and days off for sleeping in.
A hundred thousand lovely things worth sharing April brings.
That’s what made the cruel part a mystery for him
but not for me.