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      February 5, 2020Life PartnerJefferson Carter

      For convenience, I & my life partner
      (the woman formerly known as my wife)
      have numbered our arguments. Number 3,
      you’re so negative. Number 5, you left
      hair in the sink again. Number 8, you’re
      naive. Number 11, another beer already?
      Number 13, you don’t listen to me.
      But I do. I just don’t agree. Now
      my life partner’s on the couch, watching
      Live P.D. She’s pleased with the police,
      so kind to the miscreants & trailer trash
      they apprehend. Of course, they’re
      kind! They’re on camera! Without
      looking at me, she holds up three fingers.
       
      My life partner wants to make a deal:
      she’ll stop storing our broken pepper mill
      upright in the spice rack, pepper everywhere
      like coarse soot. She’ll store the mill
      on its side if I stop switching off the light
      over the dining room table whenever
      she’s in another room. Why? Why
      does she need that light on all day?
      She raises both fists & opens each one
      twice. Number 20, you don’t love me.

      from #66 - Winter 2019

      Jefferson Carter

      “I grew up with three sisters and a brother. We didn’t have TV, so we entertained ourselves by teasing each other mercilessly, a habit I never broke and which too often shows up in my poetry. After I recited ‘Life Partner’ at a reading, my wife, Connie, held out her hand palm down, meaning ‘enjoy the couch tonight.’”