Ecce Homo, He Says, And I Do by Traci Brimhall

I behold the man chosen—philtrum bristled, 
his lip a pink bruise among beard spokes.

The underdown of parakeets nestled 
in his armpit, a soft white fury of curls.

He says I’m a better wife than I think I am.
Amorous. Loyal. And I decide to enjoy 

the rare comfort of being told I am good, 
even as I hide the handcuff key beneath 

my tongue. Hair on his chest flat but curving 
like a map of the trade winds over his belly.

My love a plummet and a plumbing, a chart 
for the nautical miles I travel away and back 

again. My love happiest like this, arresting desire
in its nascent swelling. The want lingering in 

its catalog, still sinless and waiting, weighing, 
letting imagination tax the body. His knuckles

scarred by the beaks of macaws displeased 
at his sweet thieving, splinters in his fingers

from carrying someone else’s dream into 
the wilderness. One nipple turns in on itself, 

the other bitten and unpuckered. The ghost-hoof 
arched on his chest like a door to heaven 

I could open with a charm, a kiss, a word, 
and with a tongue, pull the radiance through.