Easier

by Kathleen MacGregor

Something’s bothering me.

In the dim, cold bathroom this morning,

I stubbed my toes as I was rushing

between getting dressed

and a time that hasn’t happened yet.

A time later in the day, the week, the month.

Almost immediately,

holding my foot, and offering my breath to the pain,

to say sorry,

I took it as a reminder to come present.

Aloud I said, “Thank you. Thank you.”

Because I was feeling thanks.

I am learning.

Now, I hear my husband stir in bed. His stirring is irritated somehow.

That cat woke him up twice last night and it’s my fault. I think. I think he thinks.

He doesn’t like the pets. He doesn’t want to be inconvenienced.

I want to hold soft warmth

and cuddle.

I am remembering before we married he told me about his childhood neighbors.

They kept homes across the street from each other.

They visited each other when they felt desirous

of each others company.

The story enraged me. What was the point?

If you’re not willing to fully

be with one another, what’s the point?

In a room so full and dim,

with irritation, blame, and unfulfilled desire

circling like sharks,

I know.

It’s easier.

It is easier than learning about

what you say in a blinding, red rage-

when your body stops, and your mind stops, and

your soul stops resisting the ancient buried hate

and anger wanting to be resurrected.

It’s easier than that.

One Response to “Easier”

1. minty says:

   December 7, 2009 at 8:55 pm

   ::sigh:::

   yeah, my self and your poetry definitely have a connection. I find your poetry very clear — in a way, sometimes, as if you were saying a very clear statement, like “the dog jumped over the red fence” — your poetry tends to communicate like that to me : )