The Wife

I am the sailor's wife, 
perched high on her peak,
eyes fixed on the sea,
waiting in vain for your ship 
to breach the horizon. 

I am the coal miner's wife
just after the tunnel collapse, 
standing solemnly at the tipple, 
waiting on bated breath 
for the elevator to pull you up
from your suffocating grave 
miles below. 

I am the astronaut's wife, 
gazing heavenward, stoic and unblinking, 
as your rocket leaves the stratosphere, 
praying that we have no problems, Houston. 
My heart breaking because we are worlds apart, 
and knowing that surviving the launch is only half the battle: 
what goes up must come down, Houston. 
Angels aren't supposed to fall from heaven either, Houston. 

I am the soldier's wife, 
all too aware of the real reason they took down your dimensions.
I dam the oceans in my eyes
as you wave from the aeroplane
in your new uniform. 

I am the alchemist's wife, 
knowing your weight in gold 
or another precious metal
could never 
replace your flesh. 

I am not your wife. 
We aren't even married, 
but I love you just the same. 

You're in the institution;
I wait for you to call. 

As the days pass, 
these desperate housewives
begin to join me for dinner. 
When I wonder aloud 
how long before
you'll get your phone privileges,
they smile and squeeze my shoulder. 

I hate them for their patience;
I hate myself for my helplessness. 

I tie together bedsheets, 
and head towards the window,
and when they try to stop me 
I tell them I don't have time 
for old wive's tales. 
I refuse to lose you 
the way they lost their own lovers:
because of a failure to act.