Domestic (a)blyss

He did not like babies. Not even his own.

Of course, he was obliged to love them

as all good parents must. But he could not

bring himself to like the helpless blobs

that did nothing but cry and fuss and suckle

on the plump breasts he used to latch onto.

.

He was afraid of losing her—was already

losing her to tiny creatures demanding

her attention. So, he began making himself

indispensable. Other husbands may have helped

more around the house; changed nappies,

folded the laundry. To his credit, he told her blunt

truths nobody else would have dared: that she

looked bloated and pallid, was no fun anymore.

.

And oh—to his credit, he mixed tonics for her

jangled nerves. Reassured her he still loved her

though she had let herself go and was no spring

chicken. Mixed her stiff drinks at night once

the usurpers were weaned. It made her more

amenable to her wifely duties. When she’d wake

in a haze, he’d tell her she'd overindulged again.

That he still loved her, despite her very many flaws.

.

She convinced herself that she was happy.

That she was lucky to have a husband like him.

And he kept her plied with poison so

she would never see him for what he was.