Slowly I noticed your stiffness,

your stertor. Strokes were a hard secret—

I was with you every day.

One morning, you cut primroses

and ripped the wrinkles off your palm.

I had to aim your arm for the faucet.

That’s why I locked the shed door.

I lit the path. I laid slabs

over the stairs and knobs over the knives.

You said I hid away our home.

It happened slowly. Now your body

is the broken arrow that bends

upon the bed and breathes next to me,

not to me.