You have known this man all your life
and still
you can be wrong about him.
You know this suddenly,
on a Thursday morning when
the dishes have been left out
for the third time that week.
What was he doing
when he should have been scrubbing,
swirling soap in circles across
your caked on mess?
Desiccated egg yolks mock
you with so much impossible yellow.
How did you become the fool
who believes that someone
can clean up after
you, day after day, and still feel
the hum of want beneath
prune turned fingers?
If the light slants in
through the blinds just right,
you can’t see the layer
of dust forming on the counter top
or the drags of chamomile flowers
left in Monday’s mug. At the right
angle, everything appears bathed
in rays of devotion.
The blare of
your husband’s alarm is
not a cue to clean up after
yourself. You haven’t
reached for a rag in years, maybe
in all your life. Instead,
you rotate the blinds to trap the
fleeting dawn as long as
you possibly can.