On Not Having Children

The gemlike liquids in the liquor cabinet
quiver when we make love – sometimes buzzed
or in the morning or the middle of the day.
We upset the cat, who removes himself in a huff
to the other room to nap. He ambles back in late
in the evening and resettles himself on our feet.
We run four miles in the dusk and then sit naked
talking at the table. We eat dinner at ten o’clock.
We make spicy Indian food. We shower with the door
ajar. We take a nine-day vacation to Spain and sit
all day reading on the beach. Each night before I fall
asleep, I listen to the rhythm of your heart under my ear.
I memorize its one-two, one-two, one-two, one-two,
finding that pitter-patter every day more deeply dear
because it is the only heart of ours I’ll ever hear.

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