The Affair
This man imagined that if he lay silent
and thought about nothing, he might become a bed
his wife and children could sleep in, dreaming
happily, safe from the hurt and hurting
so he pretended he was going on a man-to-man vacation
with his best friend from college, and he lay still as a bed
while his wife lay on top of him dreaming, and thinking
the break would do him a world of good.
She hardly noticed how comfortable the bed felt,
how well she slept. She was proud to have let him
go off without even a frown of complaint.
His children missed him the way children do,
which is not much, as long as their lives are content
which theirs were. By now he was hardly breathing,
as though he were really her bed, dreaming
he was off on vacation with his old friend, in the mountains
they’d hiked as students, remembering the high times
and the sweet girls they’d loved, the wild parties. They camped
in the snow above timber line, but they could hardly sleep,
the stars were so sharp and bright and cold,
so they lay on their backs on a boulder
and stared into the sky, and tried not to be frightened
at the billions of tiny lights, each one larger
than our sun. That was the first night
his wife suspected he was having an affair,
not camping at all, holed up somewhere
in some hussy’s apartment, and she cried herself to sleep
while he stretched out below her, aching to hug
and kiss her, and tell her how much he loved her,
desperately trying to remember how
he’d turned himself into this furniture, to figure out
how to transform himself back into a man |