Marriage becomes
this domesticated destruction.
I feel like a zoo creature,
hear the voices,
"Look, a full grown male."
I am violent toward
my food dish,
and the leather back chair
I dump my bones in
to watch t.v.
Marriage becomes
love translated into
another language,
like German
with all those hard consonants,
Some parts are stored
in safety glass.
Others are used illicitly
by strangers.
Marriage is the discovery
that vacuuming requires no romance,
that a garden is a kiss
five years down the road.
You stay together
the way objective
can live with subjective.
You stay together because
you can't live alone.
You've reached the age of fifty-five
and none of your loneliness
survived the journey.
John Grey is an Australian-born poet, playwright, musician. His latest book is What Else Is There from Main Street Rag. His work has appeared recently in The English Journal, The Pedestal, Pearl and The Journal of the American Medical Association.
