On the Intimate Betrayal of Patriarchy

When we were young, we lived in a newlywed glow but didn’t know it. We painted castles in the sky and held hands and shared housework. 

But then, little by little, socialized expectations set in. 

My feminist husband, respectful and kind and determined to love me passionately as myself

Who never once balked at my feminist critiques of religions and systems

Sat down. 

Marriage is complicated.

Some days I remember the mountain of kindnesses, too numerous to catalogue

But also

One day he got sick. Very sick.

And I took the reins with no one to shelter 

Or anticipate my hurt

Or prepare a place for my weary feet.

We had such dreams of égalité

An equal yoke, unused

We slipped into hierarchy the way some people slip into a bathtub

I don’t often slip into bathtubs anymore

And now I am never sick or hurt or tired

Not enough, anyway, to warrant a rest. 

Sleep, yes, but I miss the tenderness

I hold up the heavens with an aching back 

While my husband lay weary beneath the stars

There’s a touch of oppression in being indispensable 

More than a brush as the years go on

The castle we built in the sky was made of clouds

And the wind blew.

It wore him down.

It wore me down too.