When We Dress in the Morning

I want to turn my eyes away
so as not to spy the guilt

edged like a dark mold
in your surreptitious glance.

I know that what you tell your wife
is ultimately not my problem,

yet it feels as if I've struck her,
run a knife along her belly

like gutting a freshly-caught fish
I forgot to stun before I cut

into its helpless body. I want
to wash the scales, the blood, the slime

off my hands, to leave the disarray
of this anonymous room behind

and put on a clean conscience
like fresh lipstick in some neutral

shade of pink. But when you mutter
something about next Tuesday,

I find I always whisperYes.