by David Craig

My wife puts on the cellulite video
and gets caught throughout, between commands,
trying to get the last one right before this one’s done.
She has enthusiasm, does the grapevine,
arms swinging up too late, and then back,
behind her, the clap.

I think of her high school cheerleading try-outs,
how the student judges called her out a second time,
just to laugh.

But she was THERE, doing the routine again:
the jumps, the yells, willing to try because this is all we get,
the now, the mistakes that sometimes lapse
too close to perfection.

Pushing her glasses up her nose, she looks at me,
smiles. These birth pounds have to come off.
And her husband, the man who has left his book
for a moment, needs to see.

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