The summer we rented the cottage in the woods
we would waken in the middle of the night
to the mating call of the foxes,
which sounds like one of my freshmen
barfing up hot dogs and Wild Turkey
after his first frat party, a sound
that makes you want to puke yourself
out of sympathy or sheer disgust
with the whole situation,
how the imperatives of desire
drive us into the dark woods,
sick with the incandescent
loneliness of the flesh.
However, after listening for a while,
my wife remarked
that it was actually kind of funny,
as if nature, usually so careful
about beauty, about getting it just right,
had for once screwed up,
and created something even
Mary Oliver couldn’t get behind.
And then we thought,
well, since we’re up anyway,
and there’s nothing else to do …
Which is why my wife
is my wife.