For My Husband, Who Doesn’t Worry

While you sleep with abandon, I quiver
beside you, what ifs crawling my skin.
You, warm beside me: liquid
stillness. You toil not, neither do you spin. I wish
I could ladle you over me, rub you
into the creases between my fingers,
behind my knees, dab you on my eyelids.
This is ancient, I believe.
Eve thrilled—and shuddered—
to the future just like this; even before
she had a secret to tell, she was craning her neck,
seeking horizons.
That was good. Adam
needed a tug sometimes. A fine pair,
those two. Still,
I’m sure there were nights, nights the boys
were out too late and the future
roiled like souring fruit in the belly,
when, watching him sleep, Eve wished
he would wake and wished
he wouldn’t, so she could
crawl into the cave of him,
next to his heart,
under his arm.