Helen of Troy in February

do i love him? who, the big cheese?
enough to be stood here in this walgreens 
with his gut pills in my purse and the baby 
slung on my chest, with bing crosby
piped through the speakers and the slip-choke 
of pink and red and puff snowed in 
on every shelf, cards like you wouldn’t
believe, my honey bear, my shining star.
his name’s on the mortgage. 
on the title to the car. at night he says
what did you do today helen and listens,
i mean really listens, when i say
well i changed the baby and took the car
through the wash, all those words 
straight and tidy, little soldiers 
on the march, my mouth to that baking
marsh of his insides where crooked
things lie down and begin to sink.
i give him
arrows. my lover, hearts and kisses,
silk petals in the centerfold, one-
ninety-nine before tax. envelope like 
fogged glass. line at the register snaking 
nearly to the exit sign, where sliding 
doors roar open to the snow.