Ordinary Light

One hour of a particular day, 
like a sudden flu it descends upon you 
the first time. 
You could not have known. 
It wasn’t in the plan. 
You were in love, 
doing too much right. 
You knew how to please— 
the common skills of cooking, 
living anywhere he took you, 
making love. But 
after those extravagant 
nights on the steps, 
the warm bulb of the moon 
outweighing its stained eggshell, 
it happens— 
the one you love 
disappoints. 

You are never quite the same. 
The slivered scars, 
the errors left to fondle, 
and you learn how to plant a hedge of caution,
to expect some sunny morning 
a dread to enter unannounced, 
a mute to keen the birdsong. 
You go about your job unsurprised 
when spilled garlic garbles the stew, 
when the flame nasturtiums dim, 
when the faithful cat cannot be found. 

As for him, from this day on 
he must be satisfied 
to be seen in ordinary light.