They’d been at each other’s throats so long now
it was impossible to know how it started
or if it even mattered except to locate,
out of spite, that feeling of betrayal,
of having given all oneself in marriage
only to have, in the worst moments,
that same commitment used against them,
returning in love and driven away
again like two planets crossing orbits
around some immense gravity, tonight
it was the dinner she cooked every Friday.
The table alone was lit like a stage play,
one triangular light cast upon them,
with manners like lines they interpreted
from some lost, unfinished play of O’Neill’s.
“Was that man at work today?” she asked.