Letters To The Husband # 85
       

Dear Husband,

Our children are dirty. I have no time to bathe them. They are
growing quickly. They eat too much. When I cannot sleep, when
I hear them rooting in the damp of the garden, I remember our
choices: hide them; stack them head to toe — boy, girl, boy, girl;
pretend they are not our children. In the dark, no one will notice.
They are good, but dirty children. They have your fingertips, my
aversion to water and unrehearsed pleasure. Let us promise not to
beat them. Let us praise them for their dexterity. As if in a prayer.
Or lament. Did I mention that they squat around me like tiny tree
toads? Except for the blonde one. She will never learn to pick up
a comb. I fear her. She bares her teeth. She holds bees between her
lips, sucks out their honey. Don't blame me. I am mere morsel. In
time I will write her: Dear, Dear Daughter, how have we raised you?
How have we failed you?

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Copyright © 2018 Mary A. Koncel All rights reserved
from The Last Blonde
Hedgerow Books
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission