After a painting by Frida Kahlo
She hasn’t read a book in seven years
he doesn’t like the light on
if she gets in before him he says nothing
she could read all night
but the thing is he’s in bed by nine
every night every night she has
something to do she folds their washing
in three piles on the kitchen bench and once
he’s passing through and it’s on his way
so she asks him to take one pile
the kids’ clothes put them on the bed
that’s all she asks he wouldn’t have to open
a cupboard or a drawer
but he refuses another time
she’s peeling potatoes and stacking dishes
and showing Sonya how to tie a shoelace
in a double-knot she asks him to take the rubbish
out but he says no why should he?
she’s closer to the door and she says
for the first time ever about anybody
I hate you to the window
as if she’s talking to herself or talking
about the weather and she goes back
to peeling the potatoes.
Gayelene Carbis (Victoria)
Previously published in MUSE — Canberra Arts Magazine
I can't find the right words to express how this poem makes me feel. I guess, that's what it did, it made me feel. So much of ourselves can be lost in everyday living, and yet, a poem like this gets born.
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