The Poet’s Wife: answering back

The Poet’s Wife All he remembered was her undressing,as he tuned into the night sounds of Venice.All she remembered was the night fragmentingaround their son’s cough, all that went with this.She purposely did not look his way, betrayher irritation: He obviously would notbe fretting all night. Sleep took him anyway. At least he won’t pester: she just could not. The setting perfect, a cheap flight.She blamed herself for coming to this bathtub’soff-season chilly canals; the vapour rubmuch more expensive here. She thought it might.She counted off the minutes to their departure,one for each cough. She wrote this threw it away. All rights reserved. Michael Murray 2026