Sunday, June 22, 2008

Wife

(This is not me - it's just a poem I wrote a long time ago. See June 18 post.)

Dusting pain off a silent surface,
sweeping boredom out of the door,
sleeping when she should be waking,
picking, picking crumbs up off the floor.

Fluffing his pillow to lie closer to hers,
setting, then resetting the table,
straightning piles of paperbacks to escape
the dreams that became a child's fable.

Doing a half a load of his laundry,
crying when the damn toast is burnt,
seeking shelter in her pretty bottle,
mopping a clean floor as it it weren't.

Dancing alone across the shiny wood,
falling, shattering a hopeless bone,
stitching and binding to make it all right,
wondering why she's dancing alone.

Sprucing up the agony of years
with a brand new yellow curtain,
calling him in her screaming silent voice
but no one can hear her, she's certain.

Brushing the dog, someone to talk to,
another phone call to say he'll be late,
dinner's on the table, teddy's on the rug,
she'll be sleeping alone or she'll wait.

Ashes of love sprinkled at her feet,
brush them off before anyone can see.
The house is perfect, the day is done,
maybe one day she'll set herself free.

6 comments:

CJM-R said...

What a good writer you are. Very moving piece.

Ruth Hull Chatlien said...

Very evocative poem with strong details.

Kelly Jene said...

Definitely moving. Speaks of struggles. I hope this is from the past.

Sandy's Notes said...

So sad! Beautiful though.

happyone said...

Oh, that was sad.
Very Good, but sad.

Dewdrop said...

I can hear you. I hear you loud and clear... marriage is a commitment, a tough commitment at times. I hope you can find a way to reconnect if this is a current feeling. I know the trapped feeling. I am praying for you, Diane. I know your familiar cry... I wasn't strong enough. I hope you are.