They call it sacrifice— imagine me a tiny poppy on a field of green felt—brief blip of color, limitless expanse. I’ve never felt foreign, or like a lash in his eye. If it’s not love, it’s very like. Most days it feels the same— exacting—he tweezes the stray thoughts from my speech, cleans up my heart with a tortoiseshell comb. Every lady should have such a man, edging her lawn with a sharp rotary blade. Year by year—let’s call it always— editor and editrix. Engaged against a flurry of typos, showered in revisionist white out. I erase his crow’s feet, buff away his frown. My head—he yawns it open, scoops out dark foam, yesses I’ve regretted, the tiny poppy everyone sees flapping to pieces— And so, we are growing taller, sweeter, ratified in the glow of the big correction.