THE DIRECTOR’S WIFE: Kitty Oppenheimer, biologist

Now morning sickness is the proof of love—

I’m sick to half past death of proving it.

I should have swiped his badge, not let him in,

but I’d go mad not knowing if he sees

the beauty he once said he saw in me.

Or am I what they say: an aging bitch

who’s gotten knocked-up one too many times?

At least he saves his better entrances

for me, arriving late at parties, arms

too full of flowers. Their scents intensify

the pale blue iris of his eyes. He thrusts

them in my arms, as if it were a loss

our laughter at this joke repaired to say

he knows I was deflowered years ago.

All day, I dress myself in memories;

they cut my circulation like a girdle,

and when I talk, a numbness haunts my lips.