Two Words You Will Not Say

The sun is up.

You wait for me to rise

out of bed to say hello.

I wait for you to leave, go to your bed.

Act like nothing happened,

you didn’t hurl empty insults at me.

Everything’s fine.

I won’t walk into the line of fire knowingly

for your next attack.

You called me selfish repeatedly last night.

All I do is serve this family

while you and the children only worry 

about your own amusement.

Baskets still full of dirty laundry,

you sit in your chair, unaffected.

Sink of dishes stacked high—

I’ve cooked all afternoon,

even baked banana bread

to get the frozen fruit out of the freezer

that bothers you so.

And our boys struggle with boredom.

They say they’ll sweep the floor

when they’re done eating.

Doesn’t happen.

Bits of carrot stick to the LVP.

Even after I remind them once or twice,

after it seems they’d already forgotten

and moved onto something else.

I ask so little,

but it’s insurmountable to them.

I’m just a nag to you.

I only think of myself.

You can’t understand my exhaustion.

You proposed we go to dinner 

at a nice restaurant 

in a text message out of the blue.

That’s how you say you’re sorry 

without saying it.

I do not believe you mean those words,

said or not.

Why would I want to sit across a table from you? 

At least it’s a public space.

Maybe you’ll act kindly.