Adam's Rib

My rib hurts—
the one that’s missing, lying
upstairs alone in the
spare bed.
It used to hurt when
we were forced apart,
by work, by babies, by
wanting to be whole
and joined again as
man and woman, viscerally
smiting each other
hip and thigh.
But simple joys go simply, leaking
like the thin air of a
doomed encampment in a
high place, leaving only
the memory of a missing rib.