My husband rolls over
onto his other hip.
His leaden arm
felling like a cut tree,
his hot deep breath
stews with Tequila
She holds her breath
trying to remain quiet
staring at the ceiling fan,
the young bartender
in our bed,
instead of sleeping by
her young son, sacrifices
the old proud man, brutish
seems safe enough
strangely his snore
bothers her less
than the cat growling
at her naked blistered feet
exposed.
I lie awake dreamless,
the window open, crickets, an owl,
trees readjusting their leaves,
Whispering
I am unsettled
knowing how easily
he sleeps,
how easily his breath,
comes and goes.
A moth trapped inside the porch light cover,
slams the sides
meets a natural death, resisting
remembering
how the attraction made him feel alive
instead of finite, fraudulent,
inebriated, flammable
blame and denial
she agreed with him
always.
I turn over
thinking, warning
Be careful of open flames.
