Six Months Before Marriage

Inside the book you have been given, questions 
throw sharp light upon mice that stir beneath 
the cabinet trim: If we are infertile, what then? 
How will we both care for our ailing parents? 
Coarse frost crawls and fractures

into hope of knowing: cold will only 
draw us toward each other, ever tightly. 
When you read, What arrangements would you choose 
for your memorial? briefly, I must 
bury you — I don’t

know how. You say you want to rest beneath 
a fruiting tree, for shade and something sweet to give— 
have your ashes mixed with loam, and spread amongst 
the roots. I say I would gladly join you there. 
Later, this evening,

when you’re dreaming, I lean over you to turn 
off your bedside lamp. Pausing, I kiss your hair- 
line, my bottom lip upon your snowy forehead, 
nose over your scalp. Already, you’ve begun 
to taste like peaches.