The Rope
Their voices still wake me
as I woke for years to that rise and fall,
the rope pulled taut between them.
both afraid to break or let go.
Years spilled on the kitchen table,
picked over like beans or old bills.
What he owed to the mill, what she wanted
for him. Tears swallowed and hidden
under layers of paint, under linoleum rugs,
new piled on old, each year the pattern
brighter, costlier. The kids
he would say, if it weren't for
She'd hush him and promise
to smile, saying This is what
I want, this is all I ever wanted.
Patricia Dobler
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