Ice Cubes

She's gone when I get home.
No note,
But I know she's not returning
Because she told me so
And there's a large emptiness in the closet.
I pour myself a drink
Sit on the couch
Listen to the air conditioner's whine
Try to imagine what the next half hour will be like
And the next one.
I think about the bed
Its expansiveness
Afraid it will swallow me.
The quiet that strikes me,
How hollow it is,
A black hole
Sucking time and mind.
I fill my glass and am alarmed when the ice cubes slam against each other
Like we used to
This will be a long night,
Condemned,
Foretelling.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
Photo: Benobeno

I Do

At the last second,
Just before I'm supposed to say, I do,
I wonder what would happen if I say, I don't,
Because that's what's in the back of my throat
Waiting to get out,
I do.
Two words, so definitive,
And if believed and upheld,
Would mean the end of everything I know,
And the beginning of promises, hopes, ideas.
I consider saying, I don't,
I really think about it,
Or about saying nothing at all,
Making up my own vows on the spot.
But a woman is staring at me,
Perplexed at my hesitation.
Behind her, friends and family are waiting.
But for what?
For me to echo words I'm not sure I can support?
To simply get on with it so they can start drinking?
The official stares at me, nodding, smiling.
His eyes are trying to reassure me, as if to say,
It's OK to be worried, to not be sure,
But say the words already, will ya?
There will be plenty of time later to
Think.
For now, hell, what is it I'm supposed to say?
What is it that's making me dizzy and to lose all feeling in my feet?
I don't,
But I do.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
The Marriage of Tristram and Isoude Les Blanches Mains by Edward Burne-Jones

Settled Love

I tell my husband to empty the kitchen garbage.
He says, I don't know what movies are playing.
He never hears what I'm saying.
I ask again, but emphasize it with just five syllables:
Take Out The Garbage,
And add a question about what that has to do with movies.
He looks up from where he's planted on the couch.
He says, What?
The garbage, I say, losing patience.
I was waiting for please, he says,
Throwing it back on me.
Infuriating.
Please, I say, Jesus.
There it is, he says, That wasn't so hard.
He takes that small victory and rises with great effort.
And we should go see a movie, he says, Anything.
We can see a movie, I say.
He moves slowly for effect and pulls the bag from the kitchen can.
Mister strong man.
I should have done it myself while he was watching,
To show him,
To make him think,
To put everything in my favor.
But now he's trudging outside with the garbage and advantage,
With the weight of our marriage on his side.
I close the door behind him,
Put a fresh bag in the can without waiting to asking him,
Wipe down the counter, and
Pour myself a drink.
Maybe I should have started with please.
I pull one of his beers from the refrigerator and open it,
Standing by the counter, waiting for him to return
So I can offer it with a smile,
This time.
The door opens and he comes inside
With the semblance of our settled love.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
Photo by beervana.blogspot.com