Against his will he is
shown an x-ray of his head
Or, so she claims.
The x-ray is not on paper
nor celluloid plastic
in fact, it is not a concrete example at all
but a demonstration, loud, and forceful
an aria
containing the names of his various behaviors
that do not make her happy

She announces to a broad circumference of stale
air containing them
what she sees:
his beliefs, his likes, his personality failures,
his emotive disabilities
A litany you could draw a line through,
incise and remove,
to make a better person
Or, so she claims.
Sings it almost; she is passionate

“Come look at the truth,” he says
He points to his eyes
and she scoots close
watches in there. Two pinholes of light.

Through snow flurries and, following
green slopes toward the sun
where the faint scent of rain
clings by a single remaining finger
she finds his hemispheres
Halves

On one side,
a cigar box
stuffed with those years
between 3 and 12, rattling to bust out
years filled with wisdom:
pastries and toy shops

On the other side
a library of home movies
of naked women,
each with her specialty, her particular softness.

…most bored him after three weeks
…some after one day
Rarely, not at all

She sees which shelf she’s on
her label worn smooth,

stained sticky
with beer, and crumbs

she reaches out to him,
mouth collapsed,
and centers a penny
over each
of his eyes,

slips down
among the grasses,
the small furrow
their years together
have formed

between plots

and waits to wake