(this is a poem I wrote a few months ago but recently changed the title and one single word that essentially makes it an entirely different poem… I’d like to eventually start submitting it so pah-lease, read me y’all!)
When he folds in tight and shapes around you like melted wax,
his body a hinge in the night, nestling you closer,
you join the mice in the walls on the roof for a cigarette.
When the mice won’t eat the poison
or step foot in the traps,
you get a cat.
Your favorite word is tomorrow.
You’re always meaning to do the laundry
or paint the dressers
or put that last screw in the base of the bed.
You do not question that he loves you.
But just as you know that he is whole,
you know that you are much too safe.
You are sure that it is time for the breaking;
time to scrub the dishes, rake the leaves, burn
some sage and say your peace.
You’ll get to it.
Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.
It’s the chilliest day of the week.