I tried to answer my first wifein truth(e)that, yes, she is selfishand that this is good:Less wear, Few wounds, No rind where ought be ‘life.’But she gnashed and wailed,her Protestant iceberg atremble,and I curled back my wordswith the bad faith of the midway lover. We’d matched tattoos—still do, I’d think:Black ink ampersands,near or on our hands.Hers: a…