Tag Archives: marriage

Wholesome Life

I take a deep breath
reach for the phone
to type words
to beg
to explain
to express
to ask questions
I don’t have a right to ask
I put the phone down
leave the message in my head
where it belongs
I don’t explain
my reasons
my silence
my inability
to keep untangling
your tight-knit
wholesome life
the one I make you forget
the one you always
return to…

Something Small

On any given day
on any given road
men and women
travel together in silence
or in conversation
and in one scenario
there is silence and joy
in another there is
conversation and joy
and many times
there is silence and hurt
that festers
into a conversation
that solves the problem
and other times
silence swells shut
the mouth that is weary
of never being heard
and by then
the heart is making plans
to travel alone
for the rest of this
godforsaken way.

 

 

 

 

DeMaris
11-5-18

Storage Shed

The cardboard boxes
have collapsed under the weight
of this past year—
they have suffered the daily cycle
of dew and dawn and temperatures
that had no trouble penetrating
the sheet metal walls
of this storage shed.
I am here to empty the contents
of this small rectangular room
that you filled so neatly with your hate.
The first time I unlocked
the flimsy door and rolled it up,
my books (not even boxed)
tumbled to my feet like the lives
you believe I destroyed.
It took hours to chisel a path
into my belongings,
so haphazardly strewn,
that I could feel the pleasure you took
in purging me from your life—
from the house we shared
for a dozen years.
Who could blame you
for not letting me back in
after I told you what crimes
I couldn’t help but commit?
And as I carried away
the things I found I could live without
I began to imagine you
filling the boxes with resentment
and taping them shut
with sticky bitterness.
I imagined the involuntary smile
that would appear on your face
if you knew my favorite mug was broken.
My stained glass window, cracked.
The lemongrass basket, crushed.
I thought about texting you this news
because I knew it would give you
a small deserved delight—
but you’d misunderstand
and think I was trying to tell you
it was somehow your fault.

 

 

 

 

DeMaris
8-2-18

“Alvaro and Christina” by Andrew Wyeth, 1968

 

Navigational Error

4 a.m. isn’t a good time
to walk through the door
when you are supposed to be
sleeping on the couch
where you’ve slept
for almost half your marriage
because the bed wasn’t big enough
for you after she decided
she wanted to sleep
with all your flaws
packed in between you.
And even though intimacy
is a fond memory without hope
of resurrection,
the hours-old memories
twisting in your body
won’t allow you to be believed
when you tell her you
got lost on the way home
from the midnight movie.

 

 

 

 

 

 

DeMaris
5-31-18

“Interior” by Edgar Degas, 1868-1869

Rejuvenation

He enters her dark room
like a ghost
illuminated by memories
woven into the fifty-year-old shirt
he’s wearing—
the one his father never gave him—
the one he acquisitioned
after a soul passed from this life
into ashes—
and for all he knows
his father wore
that soft blue polyester shirt
with the once-fashionable collar
to work and back home
or to gamble away a paycheck
at the track
or to visit his mother’s grave
or to pick out paint
for the bedroom of his youngest son
or to a hundred church picnics
or to a meeting
with other intellectuals
to discuss the impact of Vietnam—
and maybe once upon a time
his father was disrobed
by a woman who wasn’t his wife
and maybe the shirt remembers
how it feels
to be unbuttoned
by a passion that doesn’t exist
back home in the bedroom
where it hangs.

 

 

 

 

 

DeMaris
5-21-18

 

“Four Lane Road” by Edward Hopper, 1956

Double Feature

Friday, almost midnight—
a movie theater mass exodus
into the dim-lit parking lot.
Voices hurry toward sleep
while my keys jingle and unlock
my sleeping god of destinations.
But another movie plays out
in my rear-view mirror—
an un-young couple embrace their wish.
The long strap of her green purse
is a snake on top of her white Nissan—
his body pressed between hers
and his dark blue Honda Accord.
He holds her as if this night
is all they have, have ever had—
as if he’d give anything
to be with her, elsewhere, anywhere
except in the hereafter of two hours
spent in the only dark they could afford—
I imagine them holding hands
in the back row, leaning into a dream
that will never come true—
forgetting about the lives they’ve
stepped out on to be here—
why else would she be crying
if this wasn’t the last scene
in their clandestine romance?
Why else would he still be sitting
in his car long after she drove away?

DeMaris
4-15-18

A Public Place

A public place
is an unfortunate venue
to have the wind
knocked out of you—
to find yourself flattened
after your heart performs
the acrobatic shock and swell
of being caught off-guard
by your brush
with the-never-was
the-not-quite
the-almost-love-of-your-life.
And he sees you
before you can locate
a restroom
or an emergency exit
so you make sure
the smile on your face
appears natural
and that the soul
you don’t believe you have
gives the impression
of being untortured
and maybe even lightweight—
and for the next 10 minutes
you’re on autopilot
watching his mouth move—
the one that kissed you
only once
because one of you
was already married—
and love is bad news
when it has nowhere to go
but into a private cage
now on display
for everyone to see—
and somehow it looks
inconspicuous—
like there was never
a rip or a tear between you.

 

 

 

DeMaris
4-8-18

“Nighthawks” by Edward Hopper, 1942