When Bailey died, my husband (hereinafter called him and he) sobbed in my arms, full-body. He rocked and shook. I had never seen this before. I had never seen him sob before. In 36 years, I’d only seen tears run down his face a handful of times. It was usually after a documentary on a self-destructive genius, like Jean-Michel Basquiat or Miles Davis. And when his mother died. But when Bailey died, he shook and shivered. He made head-cocking, gut-wrenching animal sounds. I mean, I shook and shivered too, but only three times. And always after he left for work. Oh, I know this poem is not about me. And I know my husband keeps secrets. I’m glad. I don’t really want to know what he watches when I’m not around. Or what’s at the back of his socks drawer. And I don’t want to see him shit. Not really. I’ve had a hooded glance or two by mistake. That’s enough. I don’t want to touch his toenail clippings. Being intimate with my husband’s bodily chaff is not a requirement for a good marriage, is it?