after Denise Duhamel
I never noticed the tag sewn discretely
behind my knee. I guess my mother
was afraid to clip it off. Maybe she thought
“Do Not Remove Under Penalty of Law”
was meant for her. My wife noted it
before I did. What’s this she said as she
thumbed at it absently. She held a mirror
for me to read the fine print: “Made of flesh
and insecurities. Wash gently. Hand dry.
Prone to wonder if he is loved no matter
how tenderly treated.” She nuzzled her cheek
on my chest, stroked loose skin on my neck
and then turned over and headed toward sleep.
The label fluttered against my calf and I
understood why it was not wise to detach it.
How else was I to understand why,
even with her caress still humming
and forty years of knowing the answer is yes,
I fret over what she’ll think of me pulling
her close and folding the soft fabric of her
into the care label of me.
Prompt: Write an “in which” poem after Denise Duhamel.