My husband wakes me in the middle
of the night, asking me about cheeses.
Smell this, he says.
The doorway outlines him in light
from the kitchen.
Is this your cheese? Has it gone bad?
What? I answer. What?
I decide to lose all punctuation and
The next day my husband throws away
all the forks, cursing.
He knows I'll buy them again,
but one bit him on the thumb.
The following night, a cat
a finger's breadth away watches
my face as I drift offto sleep.
When my eyes close
she bites my nose, not gentle,
not hard. Her cat breath is sweet
with friskies. My husband
snores and ignores her.
The forks will take care of him
in the morning.