Gods in Suburbia: Hera's Lament

From a wife to her husband of 20 years

You ask me, what do I want for my birthday?

Please, no more things:

Books that sit expectantly on my shelf, reproachful

met only with craving, with guilt

after I return home from my forty hours,

bone-weary

Trinkets to clutter our formal living room, collecting dust

a blue ceramic elephant,

a bronze statue of a girl holding a balloon,

more objects to give away after our death

Expensive clothing, jewels

to hang from this sad old body

made of ash and fat

Picture frames that cage ambivalent memories

furniture to populate our stiff parlor

with its lacquered floors and haughty chandeliers

with its dense, burgundy rugs and stodgy lamps

A bottle of wine promising comfort,

a parched mouth at midnight

No, I need your sweetness,

your awaiting ear

your patience

your broad arms to envelop me

I need, when I come home and am all tied up inside

for you to look deeply in my face

rather than turning your eyes

as soon as I begin to speak

I want to come to a home built with stones of peace

mortared with gratitude, with prayer

sewn together with laughter

rather than donning my armor,

gearing up for battle

I want the air to be soft and supple,

not taut with the metallic fear

of your rage,

tense as a balloon, stretched rubber

I want kindness to come easily

And these are the things

I know you cannot give