My Wife Can’t Sleep

Late at night I listen –

to my wife moving around

in our kitchen,

floor boards groaning,

pans burning, mixer

mixing.

 

Or the sound of the TV,

my wife watching

another Nazi documentary.

 

My wife empathizes

with the holocaust victims,

dozing on the couch

to the screams and churning

crescendo

of a war-ravaged ghetto

flickering

across the screen.

Like the pain is not to be seen,

but digested internally

and executed in the kitchen.

 

She gets up when I go to bed

and begins her routine,

heating the oven to 350 degrees,

baking tiny cupcakes

and chunky brownies.

My wife says

it isn’t what it seems,

but she won’t come to bed –

until the night’s half dead,

and her bread is baked

just right.

 

I feel her presence

early in the morning,

quietly,

almost in mourning,

offering me

a bite.

****

 



Categories: Poetry, Selection: 2010 forward, Uncategorized

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