Salvage

You get what you pay for, he declares over a glass of white wine
But do you? she asks, hugging a mug of tea. It’s not like a business,
we will have to sit there and speak our hearts and minds

But he doesn’t hear that or chooses not to.
I need to be battered, outwitted, trounced, his voice
blares, increasing in volume,

You can say that again, she whispers so he can’t hear.

They have done so much talking,
Have done what they are supposed to, to make it work.
Talked about the boxed room of his childhood,
the free ranging wrench of hers,
have delved, probed and analysed until
they are blue and red in the face, heating the air
of the bedroom with their endless helium.

Maybe the therapist will suggest homework, she says,
trying to get away from talk, talk, talk. And then- face
smug - tone clipped, we’ll have to do it.

What! Candle lit bedrooms and all that malarkey
he says, outraged over a third thimble of brandy,
there’s more to it than that.

She breathes in some of the weary air, braces against him

a weasel thought pops up - a therapist
might be her ally, shame him and list his faults
then it’s gone, that little nastiness

Guilt backs her right down into her shell home
she says mm, OK, in appropriate places
ignoring the little echo off the smooth beige walls

His tirade thickens over a glass of red wine
Good for the heart, he says cheerfully, yes
but not by the bottle full, faint thought, thin, thin walls.

she closes her eyes. But he is warming to a theme she’s lost track of.

She thinks, with regret that she may
fall out of love with spoken words
there are too many, an armoury of them
scatter guns, full mortars, sneaky little handbag handguns
each one tinged with a rainbow of meaning
from the secret impulses of heart, mind and body -
the prehistoric brain.

They will go then, for the salvage operation.
She will have to crawl out of her porcelain walls
Sticky, scared, indignant, disturbed,

They will sit in a room
with a bland picture of a beach
and be exposed.