Pastes newspaper over the ice-spangled
windows to warm up his cramped apartment
the weekend she tells him she’s coming back.
Buys a tiny heat lamp, hangs it to gild
her naked body. Ignores her comments
about the banner across the turnpike
bridge, the one he hung after she fled—
a queen-size bed-sheet, thick lettered: I meant
no harm. Forgive me. Manages to crack,
a smile when she teases, musing out loud
about the number of women who won’t
drive on that road now because he sounds like
their crazy ex-boyfriends. Leans to hold
her gaze, to ask how long she’ll stay, counts
to ten, tries not to let the fury spike,
when she turns her golden back, her head
on the thin pillow, and tells him gently,
forever, leaves him to lie awake,
matching his breath to hers, to keep her safe.
