WATER (Sea Captain & Seal)
After the affair, you have to learn how to walk again. You stumble on the ship deck of our marriage. Days go by before your sea sickness subsides, edging to dim melancholia. You look to me, solemn and somber, but who am I to soothe the ache? Me, the unforgiving spray of saltwater, cold spittle landing on your cheeks, your forehead. Not only a reminder of what has ended, I am the reminder that it ended at all.
I reach my hand out to yours in a truce, wet and slick, like the grey body of a seal. You cannot grab it. My dark eyes say, the sea swallows boats. The water eats men alive. You’re lucky you came back from this.
I know that, after the voyage you’ve had, my moony face is just a consolation prize.
EARTH (Hiker & Trees)
She’s your secret. You tell me you’re going for a hike. But you don’t say that she will join you. I smell her on you when you return. The reek of shared joviality, that lovesick mirth. Sticky pine sap and nervous sweat. I think of following you through the forest next time. To watch. For proof.
Instead, I dig up handfuls of loose trail earth, where I know you’ve been with her. I sniff the dirt like a dog, asking for direction. My hands claw sheaths of peeling birch bark from the trees. I slant my head leaf-ward and whisper my questions to them:
Tell me what you saw. They were right here. What were they doing? Did she make him laugh? Did he seem happy?
FIRE (Woman & Match)
Anger and fire—the flame will burn out, but the ember glows, red kindling in my chest.
I think about striking a match to her car or her curtains, watching the flames lick and climb. We all keep the doors unlocked in this town. We all trust our neighbours.
Don’t we? Isn’t that what she said?
Her kids, the match whispers to me. They didn’t ask for this.
I blow it out, deeply. Like a sigh.
AIR (Dirty Laundry)
It comes out in the wash for you, but the stains of the affair remain on everything. I wake to a damp pillowcase, feel for my wet face. I weep in my dreams again. We still can’t sleep together in our bed. On the nights you try, you toss and turn, legs kicking until you’ve woven your calves and wake caught inside of an old net. One morning, I rise early and pull the linens from the mattress.
Out the front door, a bundled ball under my arms, bare feet sinking into damp grass. I hang the sheets over the line, smooth them out. I’ve got to air this out. Let the wind carry it. Give it up to the sun.
That morning, I notice: a robin has made a nest on the lip of the garage roof.
She is fat and she is singing.
