Long Marriage
A poem
Ten percent northern lights; ninety percent familiar sheets. There’s the bliss and the blaze and there’s the blast of Bono, making the kids wince. Together we wait for teenagers to come home, bait the cat into the carrier for her shots, your eyes blue above the crate, the bills, the hospital beds. You have become the hand that holds the yo-yo string; I spin and return. Orange juice on the shopping list though I never drink it, socks on the floor, bathmats and tires. Crossword puzzles at the end of a day. When something happens, it is something to tell; I hold it in my sweaty palm all the way home where you uncurl my fingers. Your whisper in my ear as you explain football again is a lullaby: all is right with the world. I carry with me summer at the lake like a kite through all my January days, the sun on your skin. Because of you, sirens in the distance raise goosebumps. Because of you, the weight of being alone in the bed means, only, wait.




I am such a fan of her poetry!