husband in a jar

the government-ordered 
love story is a photograph 
in the sink. i buy you flowers
from costco & by the time
i get home they're furious bees.
i also get angry when winter
comes to make soil of me. 
i thought the husband would be
like a snow globe. shake & feel
transported. instead, it is like
a jar of pickled eggs. beet purple.
he has nice hair i guess in the grand 
scheme of men. i try not to think
too much about what he is for.
instead, i go to sleep to make myself
dream about an ex. not in a "i miss you"
way but in a "remember the horror
of our loneliness." the worst relationships
are the ones that make you feel
more alone than when you're alone.
i feed the husband fish food & sometimes
a leftover cookie or something.
he is not satisfied. i was not made
to satisfy men. especially not a husband.
my first ex had so many ideas
of what i could be. he made me stand
on a wedding cake for years. the cake rotted.
birds came but there i was still
without any words left. i think the husband
is not so bad actually. i call the
official hotline to ask if it would be
appropriate to move him into a terrarium.
they scold me for thinking about myself.
the thing about being feminine is that
no matter how much you try to steady
your voice, they'll be able to tell on the phone.
no terrarium i guess. i put the jar on 
the nightstand & he whimpers for me
to let him crawl into bed. i say, "no. i did
not ask for this." the curfew has arrived
& everyone is supposed to be in bed. he says,
"i love you." the joy officer peers in through
the window & waits for me to say it back.
my husband knows that i do it out
of obligation but still he hangs onto those words.
in the morning i will dress him & myself.
make us food. he will hum the sun alive like
a mourning dove. in that moment 
i will love him. a siren comes & goes.
his shoes by the door will get bigger & bigger.