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

Wedlock

He does not complain when
she drinks too much at parties.
A solemn reserve masks his displeasure;
he is far too mannered
to provoke a scene.

While other couples quibble
over inane social decorum,
he maintains a decisive restraint,
even as she betrays
their most intimate affairs.

He does not censor her language
with unfamiliar guests,
although she spooks the delicate
among them with brash comedy
and wild gesticulation.

She croons to inviting men
when she finds him inattentive
and suffers aloud when he scorns
her amorous gesture.  Long after
others have bid goodnight,

he coaxes her to the car
and drives them home, stopping
along the rain-soaked freeway
so she may vomit her
memory of the evening.

He observes her beneath
a veil of tearful prayer and visions
of a cherished life reflected
in the pavement.  In the bedroom,
he rebuffs her advance,

insists she remove her soiled attire.
OK, Boss, she mutters.  You're the boss.
He draws a warm, saline bath,
presents fresh underclothes
and waits for her to change.


**First published in Duck Lake Journal

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