Marriage

Put the children to bed.


I am tired of telling comfort stories
that will become betrayals
when Charles McGrudgen
-that fat boy-
pops his thick slick thumb
from his mouth
and announces at recess
that Santa Clause is dead
and goodness doesn’t matter,
the presents will still come


Our Sarah, golden quiet,
asked me about a wall
today. I watched her print
capital A’s down the left side
of her quartered composition page
“Where is it?”, she asked,
“And what shade of pink is Floyd?”


On my fifth Jack, the words would still not come
I lay naked, silent in our quilted bed
Where are you? Will you come?


In your absence I speak hot
don't knows
my full lips dumb
pretend that winter is a season

Marriage
Copyright © 2003 Winifred Tracey