Lying naked
between the cold sheets
I think of all the
other times I
with stirrings between
my legs.

He lies naked
beside me
between the same sheets
which seem much less
cold for him.
His body is bent over
The New York Times
engrossed in something.

I lie beside him, wondering.
Should I be the one
to make the first move?
What if I do, how do I …
if I decide to make it
at all.

Making the first move
is a masculine role,
they say.
You’re a gentle, submissive woman,
they say.
Your body must ache when his does,
they say.
He makes the decisions, you agree,
they say.

I’ll make the
first move anyway,
I think, bravely.
I reach out and caress
his naked torso.
He responds to my first move,
smiling at me, and says
“the Mets are losing.”
I whisper to myself,
“we are too.”
“Yes,” he says,
turning the page,
without hearing me.

I sleep and dream of snakes.
I wake with a spring coiled
inside me somewhere,
a pain buried
deep in my chest.
My thighs are hard and tight
as if made of rope.

But it’s Sunday morning.
There’s still hope.
“Let’s spend this Sunday
morning in bed,” I say,
“Okay,” he smiles. “I’ll have
bacon and eggs,” he says,
kissing me, opening his paper
to the sports page.

Mondays are not easy.
Lots to do. Making lunches, shopping,
getting the kids to ballet class
after school. Preparing dinner,
getting myself pretty for
my French class,
my one weekly respite I have
Mondays, after dinner.

Taking care of our lives is
a feminine role,
they say.
You’re a gentle, submissive woman,
they say.
Play your role well,
they say.
It is your reward,
they say.
You’ll see, they say.

I am home by ten
in time for the news
we watch together every night.
“Let’s skip the news tonight,”
he says, cupping his hand
over my breast.
“But,” I start to say
as he switches off the light
and carries me to bed.

At least he made
the first move,
I think,
feeling grateful and
so thankful for the stirrings
between my legs.
This time.

© Joan A. Evans 2018 All rights reserved

by education, I’m a clinical psycologist, PhD. by vocation, I’m a writer with the heart of a poet. by avocation, I’m a connoisseur of human folly. cats rule.

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