I am buying underwear for my husband
one-pointed in my task
consumed in the question of panels or vents
black or grey
and what to make
of a mesh pouch

when I get the call
about her tumours

they’ve come back

like a pack of bandits
like that cat
like something
that missed her

this wisp of a girl
still limp from the last round
of excavation

I don’t know her that well
but my heart doesn’t notice

I buy the underwear
as though I am in a play
acting pleasant
pulling out my wallet
as though my throat
isn’t too big
for my neck

I notice that my hands are in fists
and I wish she could know this
that I want to fight it for her
like a madwoman
with my bare hands.