Are we married? There are no bells. No banquets.
The mailman has no messages for us.
We keep our names.
The law of the land says no.
Yet there has been a shift,
the air is brighter, or darker, in the morning,
and it is not entirely due to the changing seasons.
The seasons changed in us.
You get up in the cold and make the same Sunday brunch,
egg and avocado on a bed of spinach and whole wheat toast,
and it is a banquet.
The alarm that wakes me to write, leaving you asleep in bed,
calls like church bells.
Why do I then wander round our apartment, questioning,
looking out the windows,
reading the women poets who passed this way?
Anne Carson says, I found myself thrusting my little burning red backside like a baboon at a man who no longer cherishes me.
Louise Glück says, Then begins the terrible charity of marriage.
Marie Howe asks, Who shoved this bayonet into the man’s head? answers, His wife.
They all speak the truth, and it is not beautiful.
It is Easter tomorrow. I open the card your mom sent us.
It has a cross-shaped window on the front.
John, the disciple whom Jesus loved, says, For God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world, but to save the world.
Your mom says, Dear Guy and Jee, Hugs and Kisses. Love, Dad and Mom.