Separation: Sestina
I imagine you with your stomach pressed against the counter,butter knife in hand, slicing open a fresh roll.
Beside the cutting board, a tall glass of milk,
bags of local produce, artisanal cheese, fair-trade coffee.
You pause to brush the crumbs from your hands
and permit a small smile as you consider your spoils.
It's been a good morning, but the text I just sent spoils
your placid mood. You want no intrusions. You'll counter
the disappointment by saying "It's out of my hands"
and heading out to sit on the patio with your buttered roll,
leaving your phone next to the bag of coffee
and forgetting all about the detested glass of milk.
After all these years I know better than to try to milk
you for affection, even conversation. Any attempt spoils
the quiet civility we achieved after months of therapy, coffee
spilling with every wild gesture as we leapt to counter
each other's accusations with more noise, ready to roll
out a years-long litany of grievances, balling up our hands.
I can't remember the last time I felt your hands
on my skin. You used to slide them smooth as milk
over every inch of me, every splotch and curve and roll.
I once told my sister "You should see how he spoils
me." I tracked your love in mental tokens, adding a counter
every time you kissed me. You always paid for my coffee.
These days I see our counselor alone. She pours coffee
from the machine in the corner and listens, chin in hands,
while I wrestle with leaving. She only interrupts to counter
my self-doubt, remind me how far I've come. I'll admit I milk
the positive reinforcement for all it's worth. Call it the spoils
of marital war. Today she told me she thinks I'm on a roll.
"Uh...hello? I asked if you want that on a croissant or a roll."
I'm jolted into the present by a bored voice and the smell of coffee.
"Oh, uh," I stammer. "Croissant, thanks. And I'll take my spoils
to go." I accentuate the joke with a tiny wave of my hands
while my crippling social dread turns my skin pale as milk.
If I could, I'd sink into floor right there in front of the counter.
With a roll of his eyes he hands
me my coffee. Back home your milk
spoils on the counter.
Poetry by Lady Courtaire
Read 297 times
Written on 2020-09-15 at 19:36
Tags Sestina Form Separation
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