Long Marriage

A poem

Illustration by Beck Seamons

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.