This is from several years back and was part of a divorce tearbook. The person or persons it is written about is doing just fine at the present–showing that one can heal from grief. This was a step along the way in that process.
Am I on the tracks of a solution, or just stirring up some mental pollution?
The problem–wishing he cared–about my feelings.
Yet some of my toughest moments elicit his marked jeerings.
(He’s angry when he doesn’t understand what I feel, and put off when I explain–it’s in vain.)
Or perhaps I covet mutual expression of feelings without anger when the other onel doesn’t agree with that feeling.
S u r e l y someone s o m e w h e r e does this . . .
One thing is sure, talking is a crime true and pure; in this relationship I don’t dare give no lip.
Or I might become convinced that what I’m saying is worth fighting for, and that fight becomes only a struggle for might, and may end disastrously. . . (like the other night)
So the need must be met another way–the need to be respected. (I’d settle just not to be rejected) with understanding care directed at my feelings — no matter whether they are the listener’s feelings or not.
Perhaps writing and the study of philosophy would help when I’m hit with the reality
That he often doesn’t care, and that a wife can be in a lonely lair.
Philosophy, religiousity, uncertainty–good materials for a faith of reality.
F o r r e a l i s a l l t h e r e i s a n d d r e a m s f l y a w a y
To disappoint someone else’s future day.
Yet in the sacred sanctums of my heart, with my own dreams I’ll never wholly part.
For there’re where I’m going, and where I’ve been.
And my only chance for peace within.
Alas and yet a m e n .
Copyright by Hildra Tague. Obtain author’s permission for use online or in print.