In Between

Now, the pillows are crumpled, 

sheets crushed at the foot of the bed, 

clothes scattered across the room; 

the mattress rests over the side of the frame, 

and we lay entwined in glorious silence
as she dreams of something else to do.

 
Her checkered flannel and denim

will soon be on again, 

and she will be off somewhere:

the salon, the supermarket, a girlfriend's sofa.

"Do you want to come?" she will ask, 

and I will decline without the sting of guilt
so present in the early days of our courtship
when she wore the shame of her father's absence
and I carried the burden of her self-reproach. 

Then I was arrogant enough to believe 

my love could heal her wounds, 

that form can be shaped from raw desire,

like willing a volcano not to erupt. 

Even when she bloodied my face, 

daring me to leave, the tremor in her eyes 

could not pierce my resolve.

Wait for the eyes to soften, I told myself,

and sure as the earth's crust heats and cools again,

they would.  

Hours, days later, after much shouting 

and tearful apology, the good times would return

and we would collide again on that old mattress.

We poured ourselves down through

the synthetic fibers and failing box springs,

then abandoned them with all we hoped to unmake

for another foolhardy revolt against

the mighty forces that divide man and woman.

Now, we operate in this in-between state.

The relationship is transactional, uncomplicated.

We don't make a mess of things.

While we wait for what's next

there is time for other pursuits.

There's time for silence.

For this.

**First published in Beyond Words Literary Magazine

**Illustration by Morgane Xenos

Other Couples Are Foreign Countries

You can visit them
like one visits Indonesia
or South Africa

or Brazil,
but you are a tourist
encountering 

the Chamber-of-Commerce
production 

of a relationship,
the Ministry of Propaganda's 

redacted adaptation.

You must venture beyond

the guarded perimeter

to experience the primal truths

of romantic coupling:

wander stark-naked 

into the wilderness,

go full native 

with the indigenous,

sacrifice 

to their heathen gods,

take up arms 

against their oppressors,

paint your flesh with 

the blood

of their enemies.

All are born savage.

The barbarian lurks beneath

a veneer of civility.

In the bedroom,

in the bathroom,

we cannot escape our carnal nature.

Some conceal it more than others,
many from themselves.

This is especially the custom
of social media mavens

who broadcast a tinsel parade 

through the capital square 

while their union rots 

at its foundation.

Each of us is on all fours

with a stranger, 

toiling 

for glimpses of the transcendent,
seizing them, at best, 

enough to prolong 

the alliance.

There is nothing to envy
but those magnificent moments
consummated
in your homeland.

**First published in Barbar Literary Magazine

Workweek Headline

I can bear the cold stupidity of rush-hour traffic,
endure mindless rage from embattled commuters.

I can take orders from crackpots and charlatans,
suffer the drudgery of office politics
and the bruising march to another payday.

I can do that, I tell you.  And I can face the terror
of the ordinary citizen and his ordinary ways.
Have I not withstood it these many years?

If it's not too much to ask, my Darling,
would you kindly acquit a few dirty dishes
left in the sink, loose change in the laundry,
forgetting to report that your mother dropped by?

Because I am s-t-a-r-v-e-d for a tender, 

graceful touch, My Love, else this tinderbox of a story

could ignite in a desperate and calamitous folly:

MAN GOES BERSERK. SHOOTS TWENTY
IN OFFICE BUILDING. WIFE BITTER
HE LEFT THE TOILET SEAT UP.

**First published in Pearl literary magazine