TO EVERY SEASON, CHURN  

This is how I bed down at night --

not as on TV, when warring spousal

factions lay aside their weapons,

slip weary limbs beneath blankets,

and get on with whatever the body,

in its trenchant boundary of skin, desires.

I sleep alone, downing one pill, an hour later,

the other, between them courting

the comfort of some author long gone.

I read in the company of snack foods.

Not wishing to know how much

I am consuming, only a full bag will do.

Then, all night I lust after liquids,

wet dreams, one might say,

were I not woman.

One hand holds the book, the other

crumbles chips into minuscule pieces

until the bag is half empty (or half full,

which is how I prefer to see it).

In another room, my soul-mate snores.

He feeds on other delusions.

I have begged for bedtime company,

to no avail these many years.

In the morning, crumbs are everywhere,

poking like princess peas.

Worse, chips are four parts hips.

My husband likes big hips, but what of it?

He churns in his own salty seas.

Copyright Julianza K. Shavin 2009