Matrimonies
#1.
There are two of them
carefully smiling
in the privacy of privet
he trims on Sundays.
Theirs – a practised silence;
furniture hung with dust desire –
lineaments of love.
This morning
crumbs were picked off faces.
He, suited and brief-cased,
noted her ragged repose.
Mollycoddled children were
egged on,
school-clothed.
The seedy potting shed,
cobwebbed care;
he is there.
Her: needle and thread-
bare pyjamas
and the neatly-framed photograph of
provoked, toothless grins.
And while we yearn for
libidinous loves to
rupture our nerve centres and
shatter our Sundays.
Does it always come to this?:
domesticities – hemmed in by sewing machine;
the mechanisms of food and cleanliness.
#2
There are two of them
sometimes laughing, sometimes fighting
in the privacy of privet…
She seldom shaves.
Theirs is an easy silence, but
the common quip – it hooks them on
those lineaments of love.
This evening
a carefully considered mealtime
was anything but considerate.
She, beaten by the sum of it,
admired his steady repose.
Energetic youngsters were settled,
escape routes closed.
This ain’t no Armani-manicured,
kissing couple,
prostituting themselves
for the latest fragrance.
They have the furrows,
the bellies
and the greys.
And while we yearn for
libidinous loves
to rupture our nerve centres and
shatter our Sundays,
this is costly and baffling and… more
Pinned down in mutual memory,
the loves, lines,
the babies
and the body contours.