I wake up and touch my nightshirt’s buttonholes, from the bottom buttoning and work some way up. Unbutton the button, poke through the hole. Button the button until I’m appeased. Nine buttonholes. Exactly like that. I only buy nightshirts with nine buttonholes. Each morning, there’s nine, clasped, unclasped. Before eating or drinking I have to make sure. Pissing, awnd after, dangling doing them, the nines are mine; nine, nine, nine. I make love squeezing my fingers inside them. Weeping, I reach for them, good buttonholes. I did it before I walked in the door. I never count buttons. Only the holes.