Triptych

He finally used his mouth, I say.
And my therapist doesn’t know if I’m referring

to sex or a conversation
when I tell her about my marriage—

A fleeting richness of existence
to be in three places at once:

with my husband in the kitchen, where an old wound of his
rises in conversation, a crescent moon turned healed scar;

on the soft white of our bed where his mouth will open now
with a different kind of longing;

and in the room where my therapist
and I are still laughing.