The fish swam without making sounds
in the aquarium in our bedroom. It was
ten-thirty, and you'd unplugged the motor
that pumped air for the fish and helped clean the water for the fish,
because all that humming, if left on, would keep me awake.
And every night this was the ritual.

And every night I would snore,
and you'd awaken and turn me over
and fall back asleep when I had stopped snoring.
And every night this was the ritual.

And every morning I would ***** about my world, over your bacon and eggs,
and you would silently go over some shopping list,
wondering at what point in our marriage
I started calling you
"mother,"

and when you'll start calling me "father."