Proper Wife 

She serves dinner precisely at six,
corned beef every Wednesday,
wears sensible shoes, never
runs in the rain or collapses
helplessly over a silly joke.
She submits once a month 
to his groping,
gown on,
arms to her side,
legs barely spread.
She doesn't move 
(that would be unseemly),
won't kiss him,
won't turn on the lights,
look into his eyes.
She's glad when his jerk
says it's over, marks
the date on her mental calendar.
She's never known what it's like
to fly, holding him close, their
bodies moving beneath them
or hear angels sing
when she wakes in the morning.




Pris Campbell
2009

Published Full of Crow August 2009






Return to Poetry Index II
Return to Homepage