Maybe I will start paying attention to tones of voice and hidden implications.
I might go to church twice on Sunday then watch the evening news.
I could always spend time pawing my way deep inside the blackness
of back in time. I might make myself comfortable staring a little too long
at alternative venues or send a little text, hoping it gets read between the lines.
I could try sulking into a masculine kind of radio silence until my wife
starts to wonder and react and the whole thing comes crashing down around me.
While I'm figuring out a way to let the red run and wash away this dry spell,
I’m going to sing our son to sleep, just like I do every night, and watch his eyes
get heavy after his second request. I’m going to tickle him after I get home
from work and let his smile inspire another sweet nothing that languishes
through one rejection after another until I finally put a stop to its humiliation.
I’m going to cringe when she frames it and hangs it above her nightstand
so she can read it like a prayer before turning off the light and resting her head
on my chest as our bedtime breathing becomes an all night long blood harmony.
The Lake -June 2015