Topography
I lie (down) as if the bed is
more casket than mattress. As if the stillness of my body is symbolic of my
psyche. A mournful soul evaluating the remnants of this marriage. I hug the
edge because I don’t want to touch her. The mattress is a Posturepedic frown.
My body forms one corner of the mouth; hers forms the other. No bodies rest in
the middle, merely sham pillows that serve as show. It’s open and free, a
queen-size fossil—pre-resentment. The mixing of skin and bone has become as
foreign as our first kiss. I stay for the kids. She agrees that’s best. We
still share a bed, but little else. She recently called my parents to wish them
a happy 40th anniversary. My dad told her to just wait until she was
celebrating the same. I look at other women and want to fuck them all. Not
because it’s been half a year, but because every month I feel less like a
man. I stopped ending my day with praying because I feel like a fake, unworthy
of asking God for anything. Our vows are attic cobwebs no broom can reach. The
dust is what’s left of our dreams. Each night, we drift farther away from one
another. My left leg dangles off the bed in an act of surrender. She flips
through late-night cable, pretending not to notice.
Father and Son
at Starbucks
Dad sits at his table and I sit at mine. He
drinks coffee, dark like rotting and I drink tea, more like fading. We wear
casual attire in our unofficial office. Here, we are at home in our work. The
scene is reminiscent of catch in the backyard. Only there is no game tomorrow
to practice for and no cheering from the bleachers. He waits for his clients to
meet him. I wait for the barista to call my name for a refill. I don't know if
he had the stroke yet or if this is a dream lamenting the use of the left side
of his body. A memory created to commemorate a patriarch's life of productivity
in order to distract me from the unfamiliarity of seeming him so reliant on his
family's hands. My mom lifts the spoon to his mouth and he grimaces as if
chewing is a new experience. Like each bite is a breath he has to practice to
take, with no guarantee he will ever master it ever again. I'm sitting beside
an unused bedpan, so I know neither one of us is where we want to be. He
squints and struggles to recognize me, and I, him. I tell him to close his eyes
and rest and I do the same. The aroma of coffee has been replaced by the scent
of sterilization. Wires and beeps lack the character of blenders so I squint
hard as if it's a Monday morning. Dad and I are sitting at the same table. We
read the paper like we did each morning before he dropped me off at school. We
learn that last night our favorite ballplayer went two for four, and we
understand that fifty/fifty are odds one can never take for granted.
We are loyal fans
who know the game of
patience,
the length of bases.
CP
Daniel Romo is the author of When
Kerosene's Involved (Mojave River Press, 2014) and Romancing Gravity (Silver
Birch Press, 2013). He is the Head Poetry Editor at Cease, Cows and Co-founder/Editor at Wherewithal. He lives in Long Beach, CA and at danielromo.net.
