Happiness

At the Airbnb in Carqueiranne, our king bed’s actually two
         mechanical singles scooched together. With remotes, we govern

how high to raise his feet, my arms, entire bodies
         butt-down birds inside plush porcelain cups. Sure, we have sex.

But mostly we giggle, or at the café accidentally order
         half a dozen espressos, return to the apartment frizzy-frizzy.

Even so, whatever river this is, it’s calm. It’s cataracted.
         Cellophaned. First grade, my best friend’s dad carried his pistol

inside the guest bathroom, never left. I’m ashamed
         to admit that for most of elementary school I wondered,

whenever witnessing the mom slathering biscuits
         with I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter, what she’d done wrong.

Sometimes, mid-terror, his eyes metallic-consequence wide,
         my husband screams for his flashlight, knocks one fist against

the mid-century bedside table his father built for our home.
          Where’s the gear, where’s the fire, who lost the fucking batteries.

It is not entirely a mistake, believing him awake.
          Part of his body lives inside a city I’ve never explored

forever. My favorite poet studied classical piano at university,
          hated the stage, opted instead to perform for the campus swim team.

I like to remember the way, when nervous, she knocks
          one fist against her cardigan pocket, making sure a soft pack

of smokes is still inside. I like to imagine a pool, heated
          and filled with salt, where every bit of us floats.