Spell of Domesticity
BY ANNA LAURA REEVE
It’s November, the Maui invitational, and you watch basketball until
you fall asleep on the couch. I am under a spell of domesticity
I go to bed, too, I sleep and sleep and sleep. I put my arms
around my daughter in the yellow t-shirt in the Minecraft t-shirt
in the tie-dyed t-shirt and she rolls over beneath the duvet
she rolls over in the Pokemon t-shirt she rolls over in the blue dress
I open the door, walk toward the hall in the woven slippers
in the ecru sneakers in the black ankle socks I open the door to walk
down the hall in black mules over unknown substances I walk
barefoot over a diffuse galaxy over walnut planking
I come into the living room where you are watching basketball
where you turn to look at me where I stand in the school hoodie
Turning, you look at me in the shirt I tied up on a Monday
on a Tuesday morning after a run on a dark Wednesday
on a Thursday night after the mercury rose Friday night
when you told me what I said when I told you that’s not what I said
that I never called you that that that’s not what I want
that I never said that word and finally that I didn’t give a shit.
Oh and a waltz the band, stricken when you turn, your brown hair
flying over your shoulder flying on your way to the key hook, your hand
turning the knob as you say you cannot believe you cannot believe
as you pull on your shoes on your way to the car as you slam
the door, I go to bed, to sleep and sleep. Under a spell of domesticity,
I fall asleep on the couch. You watch basketball. It’s November.
