Couvade

A box without hinges, key, or lid,
Yet golden treasure inside is hid.

Couvade

man with a white chest big
as a barrel and slick as an oyster
with sweat in the morning by the toilet
he holds his ballooned belly in thick wristed
hands as it swings and sticks and swims

man eats mostly pitted
fruits, craves an inconvenience
as it is winter and apricots are
dry as old women’s wombs

man pushes knobbled fingers against
temples the tremble thrills
against him and his teeth snap
so hard they float
before day breaks he has not slept once

at work the man falls
it is the wrong hatching
and only cure
his eyes on different shards of
his belly shell he sees at two angles
all men shaking their heads as horses do
gathering the pieces all
but the last of him, his

man made yolk
glossed on the pavement
sun sopped and gently cooking