Domesticity
In the well-lit suburbs, the houses settle down for the night,
Cozied into their emotional hotbeds;
The sour and overwhelming film of old milk pungent in the air,
like the breathing of the person you no longer love.
Falling into a dream of the sea,
A gleaming vicissitude of calm blue
Hiding the monstrous palaces of coral beneath;
This unearthly kingdom subject only to itself, and
Populated by the cold thoughts of neutral fish.
We pick at each other on the surface,
Sobbing hot tears in the car, gasping for breath,
But never going deeper, just in case there's nothing there after all.
At least crying proves that there's something;
and we chose this, didn't we?
How sad, to admit failure, to lose face before the watching world —
How sad to be alone and unwanted —
How terrifying, to be so easily lost and vanished from thoughts.
So we stay, and remind each other that in the end,
All marriages need work.
How long until we die?
