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i see your resignation
and i feel your frustration
but yours’ is not a unique situation:

that way you remember, all those
years ago,
when you look in the face of your daughter and you see
how her mother looked back at you like Anya Taylor-Joy
looks over her shoulder at Edgar Wright
when he needs her to do one-more-take of guarded plight,
just like she thought she might
when she graced the cover of a Shyamalan fright:

pleasantly enough.
the track loops on,
and pouty red lips and wide eyes
are enough to make any man whine to his kind in that way we do when we think
we’ve found the love of our life, but we
aren’t sure if it’ll ever be the right time to say they’re mine.
we all have spouses who minimize and –
no surprise –
grocery shopping & dish laundry aren’t gondola rides
or they are, but more like
the Sea-to-Sky, with someone deliberately cutting the cords
but doing it at night, while they’re closed,
hoping that no one dies.
can you imagine Anya and you wandering the aisles of Buy-Low Foods
on half-price Ben & Jerry’s day?
her eyes are red but yours’ are too,
all because you convinced her to.
how would you tell if she was even in to you?
whether she wanted to be there?
whether or not that smile was
blissfully unaware.

deliberate.
you don’t.
you need to cut the cord to yourself
after the umbilical, too.

//jf 11.6.2021

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