Complexities of long-term relationships

 

Complexities of long-term relationships

I turn out the light 
on my side of the bed 
and roll on to my side 
and fold my arms, hands 

in armpits, my thumb 
aching as it compresses 
into my shoulder either
from holding it this way

too many times for too 
many years or from using
it too many different ways 
for too many years and 

there is for a moment 
an ache in my gut like my 
balls have been kicked but 
it only lasts for a moment 

and—“Good night, love,” 
she says and, “Good night,” 
I say as I realize that three 
days have passed since our 

seventeenth anniversary
and we have done nothing
to celebrate and not because 
seventeen is not such a special 

year but because there is no 
money for it and—“There’s 
something on the counter
that’s shining a blue light.”

“It’s the little vacuum.”
“In the kitchen?” “No, 
dear. In the dining room. 
On the shelf. It’s reflecting.”

“Oh. I just hadn’t noticed
it before.” And I think, 
“It has been in that same 
spot for two months.”


Thirteen Years

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We are walking into the turning of the world. A procession of suns rolls back upon itself, a new metal’s urge plunging into light. A turning and turning of silver into stars spins a dual dervish dance. ~ We are turning into the walking of the world. The walking burns in us, burnishes bright glosses into our eyes. Body’s heat and skin’s slow friction warm and soften stainless symbols. Time’s tempering. The hammer’s ring. The phoenix forge. Love’s refinement. ~ We are tuning into the waking of the world. With all we’ve borrowed, we walk into the blue What is old is made anew.

For my wife, on Mother’s Day





This hand I hold within my own

holds the man that I have become,

holds the pieces of who I am,

takes them gently in and holds them

close, close as flesh is close to bone.

 

This hand I hold is the hand that

I will grow old holding onto.

We will sew dreams into our seems

with this hand, one smaller hand, and

my own--all I need to call my own.






~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~

A Happy Mother's Day to all.

Cold Spinach Dip




We stood at the sink, 
hand in hand in twelve pounds of 
thawing spinach, in

the colander, in 
the bowl, running water cold, 
but warming.  We grabbed 

the green leaves by the 
squeezing handfull as we went 
and I said, "It’s so 

nice and warm on one 
side but bitter cold on the 
other."  You said, “Yes,”

leaning close into me, “Yes, 
it’s just like your heart."








...and just to clarify, I have never laughed so hard in all of our thirteen years together...
...she knows this cold dip so well...

...puttin' the Po' in NaPoWriMo...