Stalemate

by Mary Miller

I draw a circle with my fingers to show him what a marriage looks like, but he believes in yours and mine. I say, we are one, which means your asshole is my asshole, and therefore I can touch it whenever I want. He says, no way, Jose. Half of me is not cooperating very well, the half that got added on like a prosthesis. I would like to adopt a foreign baby, maybe two. I have love to share, unused love growing impatient like it has been waiting in line at the grocery store for weeks. I tell him, this is a compromise: I say I want something and you say yes.

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