We are too much with each other,
and not enough. Trapped by fear and edict
into these few rooms, our breakfast waltz
around the too-small kitchen dance floor flows
into the den, our bedroom, negotiations mount
over a detente of timing my bathroom ablutions
with his upstairs desk writing time. Schedules
tossed on the same scrap heap as our 2020
New Year’s intentions: travel, hike, dance
and yoga classes, art workshops, more
speaking gigs, writing dates with friends,
a road trip into my husband’s past.
We orbit each other in tight rings, cold moons
in the shadow of a lost sun. Years ago, our therapist
recommended we hug each other, heart to heart,
with every departure and return.
We made it our “rule.” As sacred as our nightly
“dark kiss” after the last lamp is extinguished,
noses bumping forehead, cheekbone, eye,
lips seeking heat and satisfaction.
I’m heading out, he now shouts from the doorway,
which I may or may not hear as I’m donning
plastic gloves in the upstairs bathroom, trying (again)
to chestnut my grays and pink my toes.
So many friends have succumbed to this malaise—
wearing baseball caps and sweatpants, shoving
bare feet into slippers, naming it “shelter-in-place chic.”
I will not go gently into that good night.
Every Zoom call an excuse for a wand of mascara,
a flourish of blush.
It’s my shoes I mourn for. Pick me! Pick me!
They used to call, insisting I build
my going-out-into-the-world ensembles
around them. They’ve lost their voices now,
their tongues stilled, the bounce gone from their step.
This is my new secret indulgence—at night,
before my husband comes to bed, I choose
a lucky pair, gentle it from its white-shelfed prison,
hold each shoe in the center of my palm,
rub its grubby cheeks with Kleenex
and a tiny splash of faucet water
(since spitting is now taboo), as I once
shined my children’s smudged faces,
then slip, strap, zip or lace them on my sockless feet,
wiggle my freshly polished toesie woesies inside,
and skip around our bedroom, pretending
we once again have places to go,
people to see.
Elya Braden took a long detour from her creative endeavors to pursue an eighteen-year career as a corporate lawyer and entrepreneur. She is now a writer and mixed-media artist living in Los Angeles and is assistant editor of Gyroscope Review. Her work has been published in Algebra of Owls, Calyx, Rattle, Willow Review and elsewhere and has been nominated for Best of the Net. Her chapbook, Open The Fist, is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press. You can find her online at www.elyabraden.com.