DAY IN SHARDS
The day lies in shards at the foot of the bed.
You have fallen fast into deep dreams.
You have forgotten
what we shattered, how.
I pull the night up to my chin
and I know how you can sleep.
In the dark, at last, it stops:
the eye strain that comes from watching for the next catastrophe.
Blood-calmed, I gaze at tomorrow with a godís detachment.
Weíll rise. Iíll make coffee,
pour cereal into blue glazed bowls,
let the white curtains fall against the sun.
I know routine is not prevention, is not glue.
If it were, wives and mothers would be Wonderwomen,
saving lives by spooning marmalade, threading needles, sweeping crumbs of glass.
Everyone fed and mended, their bare feet kept tender. Every household humming whole.
Tomorrow may tear us apart.
Or tomorrow may be one of those innocent days,
almost too sweet to bear.
Iíll still do what women do: whatís at hand, whatís essential.
Tonight nothing more can happen.
I can finally rest beside you.
I can need you in the ways you do not need to see.
I can believe your breath is our unbroken song, all I will hear until morning.
fiction poetry "fact" photography