by Kathleen MacGregor
While you were away,
I swept up a bit
And shelved the books
That had been piled into
Tottering columns and
Spread across the Ottoman.
Piles you shifted each time
You came home.
PilesĀ I insisted were
Exactly where they needed to be.
While you were away,
It seems I took over
The fussing,
The irritation with clutter,
The discontent.
The resentment.
While you were away,
I woke up early, and
Made tea before walking
Out into the garden
To prune and pull up some
Weeds, coming in to
Fold laundry and put it away.
While you were away,
I got a lot done.
Calls were returned,
Bills were paid.
And I didn’t write a single poem,
Make a collage,
Or take a nap.
No photographs were taken.
While you were away,
All the parts of myself
That make it fun be alive,
Died. Quietly. Vanished.
As if they never were.
I know who I’d be
Without you.
You are the sculptor’s hands
Kneading, squeezing, pushing
And I am the lump of clay
Coming into form by your hands.
And even if I am unsatisfying,
Never turning out the way you plan,
I am.
And you keep returning to the wheel.