a lamb and her wolfskin: a love story
—- a lamb and her wolfskin
I have never felt more like a grown woman, a baby folded up inside like fortune in a cookie. I say what I mean. My necklines show more than I have ever dreamed on my own body. I feel sexy, wearing elastic waist bands earlier than I should. My lips are full – my eyes greener. I don’t know who I am, where my childlike is.
I want to love that man who cooks me burned chicken when I crave it, and I do in the way that meets on a bed and says excuse me at the bathroom mirror before heading out. But I say what I mean. He calls to say he won’t be home from school until 2:00 AM, and I say, “I don’t care,” and I mean it.
Secret thoughts of that other man begin to trickle over me so gradually that I’ve changed shapes without the knowing. I never think of it as an affair, not the lying, not the poetry, not the missing, not the kiss. I don’t know what I mean, so I don’t know how to say it.
A wolf tends as a shepherd, and I would dye my wool to leave, but we never call it an affair because it is never good, never god-good as I want it to be.
So shortly, I cling as I can, teetering between guilt and prayer, to the new kicks within, my image of Seth as a weak man, my husband, the daddy in my home. And the weak man is good because I am only weak woman. I am face to the ground, weak woman, extra ribbed, secret ridden, my easy god-sense left in the garden.
The weak man and the weaker woman, we shape-shift, reconcile, and hold hard, try to figure out what it is we have made of ourselves.
I learn that humility hates a secret, and I almost burst at the seams.
Seventeen hours of labor, peaked monitor, locked eyes, I love yous, back moans, and a baby rips out, and there, we have finally done it. We have made ourselves Love.
I never stop being sorry.
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