She never wakes except by his touch. If he dies first
will she lie dreaming until ?
She scrambles two eggs, scrapes them out of the pan with a fork.
Metal on metal. The sound grates but if she asks, he will deny.
He is reading political commentaries printed on the inside back
page of
the front section of the newspaper. A toast crumb dangles
from his lower lip, falls, missing the napkin spread across his thighs.
It will land on the floor when he stands.
A piece of egg shines yellow where sun slants across the counter.
She eats with care.
Home is wherever they are together maybe
sometimes
ever?
The sky described in the novels she reads is reminiscent of her life:
an upside-down bowl, a flat plate, a gray sheet and other
domestic objects.
Pots into pans. A dish sliding across others of its kind.
Everything returned,
each nestled in its proper place. At one time it was babies.
She surrounds herself with order, its satisfying sound.
He goes off into his day. It is like falling off the porch.
For him: two trips to the drug store, volunteer work and a meeting at church. He does not believe in god. Another day of sick for her:
e-mails read or sent, coughing, watching the news, meditating.
Nor does she.
Soup for lunch, soup for supper. Fat globules floating. Split peas. Table
water crackers.
Decaf, CNN and raspberry pie. The state of the world
is not to her liking, a complaint he has heard.
Often.
And the state of their union?
A blue car turns into the neighbor’s driveway, aligns with the
snow bank.
A young woman jumps out, swings up the stairs, long hair swinging.
She herself is no longer that woman.
He stands at the intersection waiting for a car to pass.
The driver, female, looks
at him and away.
Each additional year he celebrates
is a subtraction.
A river glints where cloud meets land, tributaries of sunlight
running through one, but not the other. Trees darken.
She carries a smile on her lips. He doesn’t ask.
He thinks of his mother, recently deceased.
A spiteful woman. Only the newest in-law, brought
into the story late, accords her a thought.
As he does now: Do not call upon Mother’s spirit.
Resist her voice. He shares these words
with no one.
Outside the window, trees fidget under their gaze. Next door a man smokes a cigarette on his porch. Even in January they hear him coughing while he smokes, even with storm windows tight. The price of close quarters, of small homes.
Their bodies share a bed.
The wind rises to sweep the snow.
It knocks against the windows, holds treetops hostage.
The snow, shrinking in its own good time, resists clean.
She often awakens in deepest night, leafs through a magazine known
for its cartoons.
Her silent laughter shakes the bed.
There are a multitude of skies. Tonight, white islands of cloud against
the shining dark.
A puzzle encompassing, the pieces not quite fitting.
He stirs within his perfect sleep.
