The Husband’s Story
I believed in Hippocrates to heal her weakness. Her smile, crooked against the buttercup of the sun through the filter of baking grease. Her belly expansive, afterwards her luster faded with twilight and she shrank from the stars.
“Take her to the country.” The words a balm for the broken repaired. I found her day lilies, bars to remind her that she is safe. I had hoped it would
I did not reason the cacophony of yellow to tarnish her sun.
I heard her creeping, delicate slippers tapping against the foundation I carefully crafted.
If only she listened.
The ink stains on her dress, the smudges around her temples. The rambling disorder of the walls.
I knew she was writing again.
I found her clawing at the floorboards.
She looks at me through darted eyes as if I am demon come to consume.
I fill her room with feverfew, honeysuckle, and thyme. I bring the child sometimes, get a glimpse of her humming a dainty tune, surrounded by the smell of breakfast. I must stay
vigilant against daydreams.
There was no choice.
She would not be still.