Thursday, November 29, 2012

To My Breadwinner

3/07

I have my book open to Baudelaire,
but you have your nose in medicine,
the inner workings of God and man
and secrets hiding in hearts and livers.
You never cease to amaze me with
the expressions of your eyes,
as a flash of anger twists into
a kinked and crinkled smile as I
grasp your hand under the table
and refuse to feel unsexed when
I promised myself as a housewife
to you, and promised to raise
our children through my rose-colored
world of Flaubert and Faulkner,
while you save lives for future men
and women to realize and appreciate -
you, the power, and I, the voice -
and no matter how hard you struggle,
or how loudly you scream against
the pain and obstinacy of this, a dying world,
I'll always be holding your hand,
translating those screams into soft
whispers and ballads of love
I like to compose for you, my breadwinner,
under the sheets by lamplight,
or on the streets of Paris in my arms,
or where I hold you in my heart and high esteem,
to cook for you, and clean for you, and
write over and over, forever again, "I love you."

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