BETH GYLYS
as you pull
shirts out of the washer,
or wipe the chocolate
from your child’s face.
Don’t think of me
bathing, or slipping
from my dress.
Don’t imagine my bare shoulders,
my hair hanging loose
as I dance through empty rooms.
Don’t stop to think of me
as you take the hand
of your wife across the table.
Don’t think of my thoughts,
my laughter, my umbrella,
my tongue, my tall black boots,
my way of sighing.
Don’t think of me lonely,
or making love,
or lit darkly by candles,
as you step outside
to retrieve the morning paper,
dressed only in your bathrobe
and a pair of old gray socks.
Don’t think of me.