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
