She’s going to tell him they should separate,
should divide the gods of the house and leave.
It’s not as if there are formal ties—
they cling to a score of silent tries,
a rhyme of quiet that keeps them separate,
as if each waits for the other to leave.
He will know she isn’t close to meaning
what she says. She plans these conversations
to try at something inside herself, wrecking
their rhythm. She studies the wreck
in the mirror: knuckles sagging with meaning,
her neck a record of each conversation.
Next year, these complaints won’t seem as pressing.
She hopes to figure out how dialogue matters;
he awaits the arrival of some third person—
exactly the kind of well-meaning person
who could divert them. A child, say, pressing
for attention, a priest skilled in sorting these matters.