She turned from him, her back to him –
a shoulder cold. Married long, their love had paled;
no longer could they say, one to the other,
what the other meant to them.
Not in words like that was their love longer played.
Of all things, their hearts most wanted
to speak to the other’s soul
on a level deeper than words.
No longer could they do that, either,
in their kitchen, before supper,
which she had cooked for him.
No touch between them: too much
it would have been, to have a loving
touch come from one to the other,
a tap on the arm, god forbid a kiss.
It would have thrown too much into the mix
between them, a vain attempt to rekindle affection
lost long ago; and confusing it would have been.
For, it is true, love is half impulse,
half circumstance: the fight that was
between these two, now, was of the kind
that is largely insurmountable, to be blamed
for a mutual life of discontent, that can
neither be brought up, fought on, explained,
but shows its ugly muster, in a fester
that cankered a love that once was true.
Some food she brought to the table,
again turned: no words, now, there were
between them, hardly a glance.
She sat. They ate.
The food consoled them, prompted them to look
at one another – just once, then again away.
The silence between them was a cancer.
So, then, just once, for the sake
of what was there, or what once was,
she took a bite, chewing slowly, and said to him,
“Do you like the chicken this way?”
He scraped his fork against his plate,
seeming to think very hard about the flavor
of the meat, and of its careful preparation.
“Yes,” he said at last, “I like it very much.”
It was enough for now. They ate their supper
in further silence, but he was there for her,
and she was there for him, and there
was something, still, between them.
Mean what it may.
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