Cups and Spoons
We used to do the crossword
or sometimes I’d do Sudoku
and she’d just drink and dream
Me in my t-shirt
Her in her jeans
And we’d chat of course about things
or other things
or people who we knew or wanted to
Then one morning it was gone
Still sitting and sipping
but the way was another way or not our way and not the same
like it used to be
her and me
now she despised me and the things I did or had done
or the way I was or who I am
and I was annoyed at every little thing
I hated her neck
here we were
finishing up like the days of old
before her breath began to mold
I rose to go
not ready to go
but the time had come and gone again
and then I felt her hand
she leaned in for a kiss
I obliged and spent the moment
thinking about all the little things that I might miss
but not this
the morning sun had given in to rain
as she turned back
to clear away the cups and spoons
She Sits in the Corner
She sits in the corner, with a notebook scribbling,
And I wonder why she isn’t beautiful when she writes.
No lights tonight but the TV is on with the sound turned down and it’s hot.
She’s not drunk
but she’s drinking wine and not eating the grilled cheese sandwich I made for her with tomatoes in it.
I’ve eaten mine.
She’ll take her shirt off in a minute and I’ll look at her breasts, dripping with sweat. Then I’ll probably take the rubbish out and check on our daughter.
She asked me once, our little girl, why you can’t fill a net with water.
I thought the answer was simple at the time,
because of the holes in the net, and yet
here I am, asking the same and now
I think it has more to do with the water,
the way it flows, the way it knows where it wants to go.
Now I’m in bed and it dawns on me,
while she’s out there, left hand tangled in oily hair,
right hand clutching the pen too tight.
Ever since the night we met she’s been swirling around and through my net
and when she sits in the corner with her notebook scribbling
I can see it in her eyes.
The anger and the fear,
not hers but mine.
She is beautiful, in fact, divine.
I am the one who is ugly when she writes.