“My Wife” | Nate Johnson | Poetry

My Wife

Nate Johnson

Twenty twenty was the year I got married. Twenty twenty-one was the year I got divorced and remarried. My new wife has green eyes and yellow teeth. She fasts every fourth day and never uses toilet paper provided she has time for a shower. She listens to her inner voice when the voice sings in lullabies. She marches on Washington in brand new sandals. She braids my hair. She moves in and out of my life at the right speed. We drink vodka with cream soda after each miscarriage. She insists I obsess over her ridiculous fish stories. She counts her freckles and wrecks my credit score. She forces me to eat Irish butter. She makes me pay back all my ill-gotten unemployment gains. I found my freedom the day I let her see me.