How much do you really love me?

Saturday, June 12, 2010

Selfish weekends.




I’m not one of these women lining the walls.

They clutch discarded bags and cardigans, shuffle small shoes into a semblance of order between their own flat-shod feet.

I don’t belong to their tribe. Perhaps I never will.

I have the luxury of empty hands, empty Sundays, the kind to while away with skin, coffee, papers.

I’m not sure this is my ultimate destination, but for now it’s enough.
I can come, I can go.
Just me.

Slinking in and out, I’m only visible to the husbands, the fathers. I imagine that makes me more dangerous.

I’d like to know what they’re thinking.
Is it as simple as “I’d like to fuck her,” or more complex; “My wife looked like that once.”
It might just be “I wonder where she got that coffee? I’d kill for a coffee right now.”

Would they send back the children in their own image to recover the belly before stretch marks? (Although our society has proven you don’t need to bear children to become fat, or ugly, or just plain old.)

Would they wipe out all the bickering and pointed remarks on the shortfalls of parenting just to bicker about politics? Who used the last teabag? Who used the last toilet roll?

I’m not sure what this is worth to me. If anything. 

12 comments:

  1. My lover A is 60 and has borne 3 children that were much larger than one would expect from a woman so petite. And she is beautiful. What you describe is not about how old they are, but how dissatisfied with their lot.

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  2. The thing I often find unanswered is why.

    "I'm Ellie. I'm 26. I live in a small town. There's me, Ellie. My husband, J. The significant other, K. And a few less significant others."

    I often assume you are writing non-fiction, or maybe I choose to believe so because it's more captivating. But you leave out the interesting transitions from husband to lover to loneliness, the secret hallways of the world you describe in your bio.

    Why are you, or the speaker, alone?
    Where is your, or the speaker's husaband?

    The lingering loneliness behind the judgments you make in this poem is what gets me. It's subtle, but I see it. I want more.


    The "Who used the last teabag?" stanza was your strongest, a seamless twining of two threads. Your last stanza was weaker by comparison.

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  3. I so admire Hannah's professional eye. In stark contrast, I'm forced to read with just an amateur's eye. My damn eye doesn't even think your posting's a poem, Ellie.

    As I'm an amateur, I cheat to find clues. This posting's labeled "BROKEN HEARTS" and "FRAGILE DAYS." The labels give me a map to the "secret hallways" (Hannah's term) in your biography.

    Someone's making you choose. He wants you to become one of the women lining the wall. He wants you to give up your "dangerousness" and sexiness. He wants you to become unattractive to K. and the "few less significant others."

    The culprit's J., right? He's brilliant isn't he?

    At least for now, you've made a choice. May it be the right one, Ellie.

    Oh, and one more thing. This amateur's eye thinks your writing's perfect.

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  5. I'm rubbing my hands in unabated glee reading all this. GLEE.
    For many reasons.
    For the love of a hot takeaway latte on a crisp winter morning, and enjoying cold air against my skin. For tiny plot devices (well, mundane exists all around, why would you want to read more of it?).
    And the return key.

    Oh, how I love the return key.

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  6. I always stare at the husbands and wonder why they stay. Not why they leave, but why they stay.

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  8. You've got a really cool blog. This is my first time here. I like it a lot.

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  9. "Unabated glee"? I'm glad our poor words could make you smile, Ellie.

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  12. You have a different perspective on things normal people dont often think about, bravo!

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