Jason Dale

Put yourself in my shoes:
thirty-something and nailed to the wall
by a hammer of my own choosing.
She calls herself my wife
but sometimes I wonder, when she's asleep
and the white moon watches me through the curtains
if, somewhere between the altar and the bed
some changeling took her place.

Wife, two kids, and a dog,
a golden retriever.
And I never imagined I'd have a white picket fence
but there it is, an eyesore on the yard's green skin.

In the mornings, I fumble at the mirror,
pull out a felt-tip and draw on a smile.
She puts her face on next to me until our smiles match.
I'd like to pitch my coffee into her empty eyes,
to see if the mask will crack, but
I have to be mindful of the children.

So we smile at each other over the kitchen table
as the children shift in their seats and spill their milk,
and I wonder why I never told her
how much I hate her scrambled eggs
and that sunny-side-up attitude
and the way she burns my toast.

It's not only that.
But, somewhere between the first date and the forever after,
between the sunlit garden and the solemn church,
she must have erased my tongue.

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