Re-turn

She heard the front door open
At midnight twelve.
He is back,
from his prolonged business trip
That cost him a divorce
and a bitter mouth.


Her grandma had said,
Its exact midnight when,
The He-god passed their courtyard
On Friday nights
Dragging a chain
Pulled to his ankle


They sat there on the portico
She counting the rose buds
And he untying the shoe lace
Years dragged between them, jerking
Like the squeaky kitchen drawer.


He indexed the strangeness
Clinging to his shoulder bag
While she sketched
The alien features of the little one
Sleeping inside.


Her dry washed skirts
Lay on the backyard poles
Drenched in the night rain.
She dreaded,
The man-god passing would curse
If water drips over his face
As he crosses over.


Words lay scattered
Beneath his cigarette smog
Like onion peels
In that bright wet night.


She felt relieved
For the silence that came over
As a new born babe.
At least, now she needn’t explain
How she balanced
Coffee mugs and carpet rates
Over her ways of love.


She was content
She had learned,
To sleep with strangers.