forty-eight hours after chemo
I close the lid and flush twice.

Four a.m. and I forgot my promise
to use the downstairs bathroom.

So I scrub the toilet,
clean the faucets.

Quietly I crawl back under the quilt
next to my husband,
who last week posted a picture of me
running the log splitter
with the caption, best spouse ever.

He pats my hip,
asks if I’m all right,
then rolls away 
to his side of the bed.