elephant

there’s an elephant in the bedroom
of every marriage, of each pair of lovers, and
it murmurs into their ears.

while the man sleeps, it whispers to him:
it’s not in his nature to be with
just one —

the man puts the pillow over his
ears and eyes, then over his head;
leaving words in his mouth, like canker sores,
unspoken and unsaid.

while the woman sleeps the elephant sighs:
the romance is gone. surely a
new man…

on her side, back to him, pretending to sleep,
she quiets toxic thoughts,
as she thinks of how to count sheep.

when they wake, they take great care
to ignore the beast,
glowering in the corner.

but what each doesn’t know is this:

when the elephant whispered his murmurings,
words that followed into their respective
dreamscapes —
the discontent, the dissent, and yearning,
lost potential in past and coming years —
each unknowingly
heard the poisonous susurrations,
muttered into
the other’s ears.

they shower, dress, move into their day,
but the elephant’s words niggle

in dark-corner thoughts as they
and tear and pull
at untended, forgotten seams —
of the man in denial, seeking escape

and the woman, living
only to dream.

— j.a. Carter-Winward

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