You’d take me in
and give me a room of my own
and maybe even an entire floor
or
wing
You’d pay the bills
and be so kind about dinner
and the clean sheets
buy an endless hot water heater
and install a huge tub
You’d be so glad that I practiced with the kids
and took them to their game club
or dance
or music
or church
or friends
or ice cream
or coffee
You’d never tell me what to cook for dinner
Or complain about rabbit food
but would share the things you like
and notice when I did culinary things for you
You’d play video games with the kids after work
or read a chapter from our book
or kiss my neck
You’d let me make a family
holding my hand
inhaling my hair
and smiling at me when you caught my wondering, wandering gaze
But would you ever feel at home too?
Secure and stable with the uncertainty of me?
Would my faithless heart stay in exile?
or
would it adopt this life you offer
Would you love me?
Or, would just liking me be enough for you?
Does it have to be love?
Would you notice the difference in wondering and wandering?
Would you make love to me
until my heart was safe
or would your service merely give scorn a fertile place to grow
and would I treat you like an infant
another chore
a duty
Could we find that place of tender, compassionate
companionship
that allows for the ache and angst
yawning from my bowels
or
would that be too lonely for you?
Could I do it?
This setting aside of myself?
Could you live well if you didn’t have all of me?
I feel so guilty for thinking any of this
Guilty that I would even question this when it’s a chance to give my babies a roof
and life
Guilty for even considering the using of you
(but, ironically, not guilty for using myself)
Guilty for choosing my breath over that of my kids
I am so afraid of being bored
of trading a material lack
for intellectual lack
of trading life
for death
of having to tear more bits of me away to make room for the tasks
It makes me simultaneously panic and plan
You’d buy or build me a house
on the water
with a view
Where I could have my coffee
and silence
and words
You’d make possible the things I cannot do
What happens to people like me when we choose convention?
Is there a different sort of life?
I am afraid I will still be alone
And yet, I am house shopping nonetheless