Sunday

Good morning Sunday!
Want to hang out in bed with me today?
We could read that stack of books
lying tantalizingly on the bedside table,
pages spread uninhibited, expectant…
Did you conspire with the puppy
to lick my face awake, excited like you haven’t seen me in a week?
Ah, the guilt.
My mom friends are already texting,
up and running after their small people,
no question of canoodling with you,
but here is the silver lining of divorce,
Sunday,
every other week we have this tryst,
and I have come to love you
again,
like when we were little and used to
hide in the basement and play
peekaboo with Dad…
And then,
remember university?
You would wrap me in a warm blanket
and whisper
“no more peach schnapps, kiddo.”
And when my firstborn came along,
that bright and pungent baby who never slept but sure could scream,
you tried to sneak away,
don’t pretend you didn’t.
You were an asshole like the rest of days then,
you acted like Monday,
but now I see it wasn’t really your fault.
Babies just don’t have any respect
for order, time, sleep,
and don’t feel bad,
Sunday,
I didn’t really notice you leave…
I was so in love, so enamoured
with that little wailing life,
that the whole world caved in;
I was so in love with that baby,
that another seemed a great idea…
A second one,
bright and pungent,
less wailing with this one,
but maybe that was me
I was an experienced mother then.
I was rosy and ignorant
of time outside the cave,
self-important like
I was the only one who ever gave birth,
And of course,
Sunday,
you know I work outside the cave
so how could we have met back then?
But today,
I see that you didn’t run off after all;
you have been waiting patiently
in the wings
all this time.

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