Woman

You hide your tears and save them for later.

You have to make sure the floors are shining like watery eyes

while at the same time you must bust away in the kitchen.

You know when he gets home he’ll mutter and complain and cry

About how he’s the only one who worked hard today and he’ll look down at his plate.

The pasta will be steaming and the sauce almost hot but he’ll still be bitchin’

about how it ain’t in front of him yet.

The reeking bottle is done and now in your hand

so you throw it away in the overflowing bin and grab another

one for him. You remember the days you’d both smiled and talked

about how you couldn’t wait to become a father and a mother.

Eight years later it’s just you and a chair with a slumbering snoring man

while you brush the kids teeth and hair before you send them to bed and quietly walk

down the hallway carefully so the squeaks in the floor won’t wake them.

You remember the days when you used to be free

to do whatever you wanted and go anywhere you pleased.

You now wipe the dishes and table with the old revolting rag,

thinking about how this is your nightly routine. You feel as though you’ve teased

yourself to have ever thought you would be more than a woman who cleans,

cooks and makes little lunches that fit perfectly in brown paper bags.

You finish and doze on your damp pillow on the left side of the bed,

leaving room for him.