what makes a husband?

surely hands that know the divots of his wife’s spine,
the way her soils tremble, the give of her malleable flesh.
surely a husband is the one who tills her body,
carves her womb for seeds, as he has done for years.

surely i am a husband.

i might have been a paid stud, a man meant for this labor,
but her grit lines my palms, her dirt lives underneath my nail beds.
my children bear her scent, and she holds the shape of my palms.
i’ve nothing but her, as borrowed as she may be.

what makes a husband?

surely it is not the man who has never touched his wife, 
who knows nothing of her droughts or rains,
but counts her worth in pesos per hectare.
surely not the one who turns her and her sisters to slaves,
to keep the harvests full for his table, as they have done for years.

surely he is not her husband.

a husband in paper, never anything more,
and i a husband in everything but name;
his hand reaps all she gives while mine remain empty,
his hands clean while mine knows weathered with her toil. 

what makes a husband?

the ring on his finger. her pleasure on my palms.
perhaps it is the lie of it all,
the taste of the half-promise of reform on his tongue.

perhaps we are neither husbands to a wife.
perhaps we are just men, claiming a wife, a land.

surely that’s all we’ll ever be.

–

NOTE: This literary piece was published in the April 2025 Tabloid Issue of Atenews. Grab a physical copy for free in the Atenews office.