I think this poem was born of beginning to see the crumbling center of my marriage. There were so many things that remained buried for so long between us. I would go to bed thinking things would be all right, but wake in the wee hours to knowing something was really wrong. (And I don't usually swear at all.)
Why do I never dream you faithful?
I have been dreaming women's dreams
pomegranates, those membranous caverns of red seed;
light flooding geraniums on my mother's windowsills;
a woman giving birth to the world.
I wake to football, borders, bombs.
I can say, "fuck."
I am married to what I need,
though our secret failures
curl around and take me from behind:
What we have left unsaid
prods me urgently at four a.m.
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