The Silent Treatment

When we fight your lower lip pouts
like that baby picture hanging
in your mother’s house.

You not-quite-slam the door
and stomp to the barn.
(I should’ve said less)
I go to bed to escape the silence
that grows from inches
to feet
to miles.
(stupid, stubborn,
why won’t he come to bed?)

After midnight, you slide into our bed;
there is a cold-sheeted gap
between our turned backs.
I squeeze my eyes shut
and force regular breathing.

My cautious casual bump against you
(I’m sorry)
meets with stone
and I draw back; reconstruct
the gap.

In the morning, you reach for me
and I wiggle close,
sleeping snug in smiling silence.

Written from Adele’s prompt on Silence.

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