Dolly Parton

When they asked me to describe my wife

I found I couldn’t. Her face was still and steady

and clear in my mind

yet I found I couldn’t say the words to describe

her features. I went dumb, blank. A slack-jawed mute.

They glanced at one another. Eventually I found

I could spit out some small, useless details.

The single black bristle that would occasionally sprout

from her chin. Her tendency to wear bras

a few sizes too large. I hummed them the melody

of that little tune she’d sing to herself

when she was feeling particularly satisfied

with herself, but they weren’t interested.

I told them she liked Dalmatians, and saffron,

and Dolly Parton. I knew I wasn’t being helpful.

I flipped through my phone looking for pictures

of her, but all my photos were of parking lots

and humorous church signs, the only videos I ever took

were of the stray cats we left food out for

on the back porch.

They sighed and thanked me and drove off.

You can come out now, I said when they were gone,

and she came tumbling out of my mouth,

her own words arranging themselves before me,

describing her form better than I ever could