Husband

This morning, I let the apples,
clustered like red
balloons in a wooden bowl,

bake their image into memory,
watch sparrows pop and bob
beneath the feeder as sun butters

the backyard grass. Steam
rises from my coffee with a belly
dancer’s grace. I am jealous

of the steam that fondles
you as you shower. I hear
you sigh through the bathroom

door, pluck apples from my
mind, shred each heart
with jealous teeth.

S. Thomas Summers