i brought into my husband’s stomach

a green leather suitcase filled with clothes,

a sewing kit, a rug, and a framed photo

of my sisters and me

smiling with our short, sensible haircuts.

on my wedding day, they arranged

my dress into an o shape on the floor

and i stepped into its eager

tulle mouth. my mother veiled me.

the beach was cold and bright.

after the ceremony, the whale smiled at me

from the water where he waited. i stared

into his left eye because that is what faced me

and because it was like a dark, wet stone, as wide

as my chest. his expression bore a formality

appropriate for the occasion. the tide was coming in.

my ankles became wet. our guests left the beach

to be polite. the whale said consummate,

which meant consume. it was noon. like any good wife,

i smiled as he swallowed me whole. his gray lips

closed behind me and i thought this is what it’s like 

to be an eye under lids blinking shut. i thought 

of my wedding vows. for richer, for worse.

my hands searched for something to hold onto and found

a crescent tooth. our marriage

came late in his life. his tooth, soft at the root,

slid free in my palms. you will learn 

to love him, my mother had said. in his stomach,

it is warm. only after he opens his mouth

and closes it again am i aware of the persistent

smell, like an infant’s saliva. i trace the seams

of my suitcase with my fingers. i am used to the sound

of his blood circulating. i am used to the dark, 

which is faithful to me. i do not try

to count the hours. i sharpen the tooth 

into a blade. i cut my hair when it needs cutting.

when my socks wear out, i darn them

with that hair. i feel for my picture frame. 

in the dark, it is just a shallow box.