I married you instead of English,
your rival. Stranger,
Shakespeare knew you:
"Action is eloquence," he said.

Oak poacher,
porterhouse tender,
fixer of weeping faucets,
fine red-haired motors
coo for you.

Disciple of physics,
with each ridge
of your fingerprint
you find tension in a wheel bearing,
set timing on a cam.

With the same devotion
you bear boxes of pizza
to the bedroom
and proffer
sweating pitchers of water.

Rough hand
moves across my breast
like a woman with a rosary.
I shiver under
your sibilant praise.