sunday morning

     The sun sets and rises on our resentment, and there are sheets

     of ice between us and not enough blanket to cover our limbs,

     spent and sullen. No breakfast today, just coffee—black,

     strong—and silence served on a chipped dish. (We try not

     to mind the mess in the sink, the broken saucers and shards

     of glass hastily swept up before they can cut through soles.)

     It is a contest on who can look away longer, but beyond our

     own faces there is not much to see in this place. I want to

     tell you about the dream I had, the spinning rooms and the

     windows opening up to reveal red leaves and blue-stained

     petals falling from the sky, a strange bouquet shedding parts.

     I want to tell you that your hair is sticking out all funny, that

     there are angry pillow marks on your otherwise smooth cheek.

     I want to tell you that maybe we should take a walk, breathe

     in the flecked clouds and scattered puddles. Sooner or later

     one of us will have to speak, and though I never want to

     be the first, maybe today I will. Fine. I want to tell you

     that I understand things won’t always be clear. Right. That

     sometimes the walls will be delicate and the corners will be

     sharp and the floors will strain under our weight. Good.

     I want to tell you that in the middle of the night it is hard

     to be forgiving, but in the morning it is so much harder

     not to be.