“If you are afraid of loneliness, do not marry.” – Anton Chekhov
Once, I was the artist in our marriage,now my unfinished masterpiece.You sharpen scalpels, I craft my nightmares.I walk down never-ending stairs.
Silent night, holy night,All is calm, all is bright
Every night now, we pretend to forget –the season of miscarriages, the awkwardnessof over-familiarity, the smell of sockshardening into leftovers.We fold mistakes like clothes,keeping them alive for another day.Errors turn into kettle-fossils.
Sleep in heavenly peace,Sleep in heavenly peace
“Not today …”
Your sleep is our marriage’s dowry.Watching you sleep, I feel like a carbeing overtaken by another.Only there’s no speed –your breath paces slower than mine.I watch this ticketless travel carry you away.I worry about the long queue that makes mewait to get into your dreams.
Silent night, holy night
Half-asleep, the ancient tremulousnessof hunting sticking to eyelids,we scratch with words, blunt weapons.We win sigh-battles.God is a pillow we fight with.Role-playing master, he becomes arbiter.
Silent night, holy night,Shepherds quake at the sight
A wife is never porn, I say.Is it the same for dreams? I ask.Your sleep’s tarmac keeps me away.
But it wasn’t always like this.
I wish we were old. Or older.Young jasmine bulbs have no fragrance.Youth must have had its uses –
Glories stream from heaven afar,Heavenly hosts sing Alleluia!
Our marriage was young once.We slept better, we forgave more,we excreted more rheum.Problems were a framethat gave our lives structure,like a wallet does to currency notes.
Middle-age is the season of plenty:more food in the trash than in stomachs,clothes for six lifetimes, the seventh ajar.
Radiant beams from Thy holy faceWith the dawn of redeeming grace
Now I sit with the cherry seed in my mouth,caught between swallowing and spitting,trapped in the cubicle between abundanceand being abandoned.
Silent night, holy night