Until

She
sighs.
 He stares, submerged, into the mirror, slicks back his hair
                      and the  moment of what could have been, rushes past, an
itch lapsed.
 Unfolded in the time it takes for him to primp, her desire laid out aches the bed-an ocean of
                                                    all marriage
                                                        mystery. Her eyes now
                                                                reflect the
glassy void of his, the milky promises
   seeped to spilling are the whites
and the once blue of
                     infant hope, now tragic as the state of constant solitude  in company.  Heaving her
body upward, she returns
                             to laundry to lighten the load of all unwashed
                                                                                        sin,
within.
"Listen," he says,
 his voice a blast of what's broken
and she jumps
 to have to.
 She
    turns
and gazes at his soul,
wants to take
                     a paper towel and Windex and scrub until visibility
                                                                       becomes a possibility.  "Top of the list, Sweet- laundry.
Socks, please," he says, halfway out
                                                   the door now
 and she sighs.


The Sunday Whirl