When
you finally forget her,
she’s
standing in the kitchen.
She
thinks it’s something in the water, and it is.
Her
hands stop moving,
coming
to a standstill in those rubber gloves
she
seems to wear like armor.
And
she looks out the window.
And
she takes a breath, turns off the water
and
goes to sleep.
And
in the morning,
she
wakes up
and
makes you breakfast without a word.
Even
when you break the plate.
Because
you don’t remember the last time you were sober
and
the lines between desperate and despise
start
to blur come sunrise,
so
you’re never awake to see it.
And
it’s her fault, really.
After
all these years she still can’t cook the eggs right,
still
can’t shut up the baby.
Still
can’t cover up bruises quite right
so
it’s her fault when the questions come, really.
What
were you supposed to do.
For
her, it was a quiet affair,
she
washed the dishes and made you dinner and
poured
whiskey till her hands shook.
And
she let you slip away.
Put
the baby to bed and just let you slip away.
You’ll
never forgive her for that.
But
what about the kids.
They
all say it, they all knew before either of you did.
But
what about the kids, and all the time,
what
about all that time,
and
wouldn’t it just be better to stick it out.
Just
hold on.
Just
til Christmas and then we think about the broken glass
and
the doors that don’t lock. Just wait til Christmas.
And
what was she supposed to do.
Let
the devil keep writing messages in the mirror?
Let
the kids find out?
Let
her traitorous hands burn the place down?
So
she just pours you a whiskey.
And
she waits til Christmas.
And
the kids don’t find out.
And
the house stays unburnt.
And
she wears her rubber gloves like armor.
Like
maybe you can’t touch her
if
she’s washing the dishes.
And
eventually you forget her.
She
takes a breath.
And
puts the baby to sleep.
And
she lets you.
