Dear darling, I’m sorry, I have broken
of our windows.
The first while I was alone, spring cleaning, tipping inwards, wiping years of grey
A squeak I could not attribute
to a mouse.
I tried to get back hold of the thing darling, but it is difficult, balancing on a six-dollar bookshelf and a three-foot-high rolling chair and when your fingers drip with blue glass cleaner and the February wind sucks in, the February wind throws your hair in your face
One side of the latch, snap, the
other side of the latch, snap
I panicked. I pushed the top pane up, the bottom pane down, I held them with shaking arms and with a pale forehead locked them into place, and I made a mental note
to tell you
when you got home from running that errand, for me
“darling, we can simply never
open that window again.”
Luckily you got home just as I was breaking the second one.
Here is the deal on that third window darling I don’t even know
I’d opened it nice and wide
I bundled in blankets on the couch and
welcomed that cold February air, because with it came
springier things, chirpier things, the occasional peak
of grey sunshine things.
But this soon became unpractical. You can’t just pretend summer is coming
forever. You can’t just
shave your legs and call it a day.
When I leaned on the top pane to push it, to close it, to send it down well suddenly there was a loud snap! a rusty spring
plastic shards scattered all over the floor.
What is the matter with me.
I don’t know my own strength.
Darling I have created for us a trap, a place where
the grief can’t air out
a place of wheezing technology, recycled air, our own little seat in coach now buckle up
Here is the good news:
we are protected from the elements.
All we have to do
is never open any of those windows.