Читать книгу Nearsighted - Richard Edwards - Страница 4

I

They wait until the kids are tucked in bed

To start on one another’s sins—

He having lost the glow of boilermakers

Sloshed down after work; she with a head

Dull in the aftermath of cocktail gins—

Both primed, vindictive, ready to engage,

Defeated only by what’s left unsaid.

The kids, of course, hear when it begins,

Stomachs churning, fantasizing peace,

Too immature to force a household truce.

II

Here, the TV’s off at eight o’clock,

Maybe before, but never after. By eight,

He turns it off. At six, on the dot,

They rise. This house admits no praise;

No one ever dares to deviate

From this unwholesome dullness, where the girl

Will shrink in fright and never disobey,

Where “no” continually reverberates,

Where she will underplay her childhood sport

And bruise herself beyond emancipation.

III

Together now, he never starts a fight,

Always backs down before his stomach churns,

Never says a word of criticism.

She, on the other hand, sinks in a bite

Or barb with ease and likes to watch him squirm,

Relishes the quarrels they never have.

Who knows, or cares, which one of them is right.

They carry on, both wronged. Their children learn

The catechismic schism’s hellfire truth—

That each abides within a self-made enclave.