sweetbriarpoet
Flower Fortune- Sweetbriar: Poetry and fragrance.
Fourty Ninth Entry-Writing
I can't seem to leave Mindsay, reading or writing. It's like this vast escape where I needn't worry if my work will be published, or if I should remember things in chronological order.
I feel guiltless about my love affair, partly because my husband calls me an author, an artist, and finds that sometimes I am too complex for him. Once in awhile he'll look at me, Those days again? And he'll stare at me constantly, waiting for me to spout of random passages from Dostoevsky, or waiting for me to write experimental poetry with marker on the wall. I am fearless of you now, he said three days ago when we made love. And I couldn't help but laugh, on thanksgiving, no less. It is good to see my husband laugh, when all has been such a mystery lately.
If Edward calls me at the dinner table, it is known all around, and Harry tenses. Shake of the head, look down at his plate. I am here for dinner, it says in his face, And when I am here for dinner, it is only me. And he is right, so I do not answer. Alone in Edward's house, though, I am twenty-three years old, still a child who knows nothing. An innocent. What do you think about Virginia Woolf's passage on suicide? he'll ask and I am alone in a big chair with no children on my lap. A flash of me in a large, pink dress, legs drooped over the sides of the armchair, and my bare feet swinging in the air. Fingernails clicking on my teeth. Should I think something about it? He laughs at my blushing and rushes over to comfort me. As a student, you are of the rottenest moods. But as a lover, adorable, independent, desirable.
Where are my children in those moments, with their playdoh and their father who matches their hair, and Rev who kisses then as if they were his own and brings them toys from the goodwill? They have their fun and then should understand my own in their small ways.
They never ask for me, unless Harry is around. The associate the two of us together, like we are the Parent, the indestructible being that cannot be reckoned with. No one can come between the Parent and the children, and we are all good mates. But, some nights, when it is cold outside, and I am staring out the window, Harry takes me in his arms and whispers, I have you all to myself finally, but I don't laugh and neither does he, because it really is a serious matter, no matter how sensual.
Mommy, I can't sleep, and it is Tuck in our bed now where Harry is reading because he got home and could put the children to bed, and Tuck slips beneath the covers and Edward is on my mind. Harry laughs and tickles Tuck, and being kicked by little boy feet, I still think of Edward, alone in a large house, with no future of children, no future of a permanent partner. He likes my sweet escapes to his house, but he imagines me in a cocoon of love, surrounded by men who want to lift me up and keep me as a prize.
Harry and Edward play golf two days from now, and I wonder if they will speak of me. Harry says they avoid that topic, but I can see them sipping water in the clubhouse after a round, Paige has wonderful eyes, she sees everything, Harry will say and Edward will respond, She worries about the future much too much. Her eyes are a detriment to her. Harry nods, takes another sip. One day, I'll make her secure, he'll say. Quite, Edward answers. Because he would never start the argument that forces Harry to tell him to bug off.
I, in a cocoon of love, am never fully happy, which makes the happiest. Without this surge of panic every now and again, I wouldn't be truly fulfilled. And when the children cry, if it is not a physical pain, I will let them kiss my cheek and I will read them stories to make them forget their worries. I do not want them to rely on this unpredictability like I do.
I feel guiltless about my love affair, partly because my husband calls me an author, an artist, and finds that sometimes I am too complex for him. Once in awhile he'll look at me, Those days again? And he'll stare at me constantly, waiting for me to spout of random passages from Dostoevsky, or waiting for me to write experimental poetry with marker on the wall. I am fearless of you now, he said three days ago when we made love. And I couldn't help but laugh, on thanksgiving, no less. It is good to see my husband laugh, when all has been such a mystery lately.
If Edward calls me at the dinner table, it is known all around, and Harry tenses. Shake of the head, look down at his plate. I am here for dinner, it says in his face, And when I am here for dinner, it is only me. And he is right, so I do not answer. Alone in Edward's house, though, I am twenty-three years old, still a child who knows nothing. An innocent. What do you think about Virginia Woolf's passage on suicide? he'll ask and I am alone in a big chair with no children on my lap. A flash of me in a large, pink dress, legs drooped over the sides of the armchair, and my bare feet swinging in the air. Fingernails clicking on my teeth. Should I think something about it? He laughs at my blushing and rushes over to comfort me. As a student, you are of the rottenest moods. But as a lover, adorable, independent, desirable.
Where are my children in those moments, with their playdoh and their father who matches their hair, and Rev who kisses then as if they were his own and brings them toys from the goodwill? They have their fun and then should understand my own in their small ways.
They never ask for me, unless Harry is around. The associate the two of us together, like we are the Parent, the indestructible being that cannot be reckoned with. No one can come between the Parent and the children, and we are all good mates. But, some nights, when it is cold outside, and I am staring out the window, Harry takes me in his arms and whispers, I have you all to myself finally, but I don't laugh and neither does he, because it really is a serious matter, no matter how sensual.
Mommy, I can't sleep, and it is Tuck in our bed now where Harry is reading because he got home and could put the children to bed, and Tuck slips beneath the covers and Edward is on my mind. Harry laughs and tickles Tuck, and being kicked by little boy feet, I still think of Edward, alone in a large house, with no future of children, no future of a permanent partner. He likes my sweet escapes to his house, but he imagines me in a cocoon of love, surrounded by men who want to lift me up and keep me as a prize.
Harry and Edward play golf two days from now, and I wonder if they will speak of me. Harry says they avoid that topic, but I can see them sipping water in the clubhouse after a round, Paige has wonderful eyes, she sees everything, Harry will say and Edward will respond, She worries about the future much too much. Her eyes are a detriment to her. Harry nods, takes another sip. One day, I'll make her secure, he'll say. Quite, Edward answers. Because he would never start the argument that forces Harry to tell him to bug off.
I, in a cocoon of love, am never fully happy, which makes the happiest. Without this surge of panic every now and again, I wouldn't be truly fulfilled. And when the children cry, if it is not a physical pain, I will let them kiss my cheek and I will read them stories to make them forget their worries. I do not want them to rely on this unpredictability like I do.
Profile
Calendar