i listen to the broken rhythm
of their speech;
it’s not how i imagined two lovers
in their sixties would be.
their silence creates static.
i hold my breath in the adjacent room.
when they do share words,
the tension robs me of oxygen,
robs them of a connection.
they speak yet say nothing,
the conversations forced,
repetitive.
and it would be less troubling
if i didn’t taste the sadness remaining.
if i didn’t feel her resignation,
wondering why she bothers if he doesn’t care
to really sit back and ask what’s on her mind.
there’s poison hanging from their jaws,
waiting for somebody to notice.
and i do, i do.
some days, i’d almost prefer the yelling
and i know, this makes little sense
but i already hear the chaos in my
mind every day, so why would more
disruption make a difference?
she knows the roots are severed,
yet still, she leans against him,
and i want to tell her
that their future is rotted,
like fruit she determinedly picks
from the branches of the crooked
tree that keeps watch out front.
she refuses to cut off the dead limbs,
neglecting to see the land she’s settled in
has been deserted for years now.
_______________________________
written while listening to “poison tree” by grouper
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oGX4Wbv-zR8
