VI. No Kingdom – Carl Phillips

So little wakes you – why

should a little rain,

or my leaving

to stand under it

and naked

because I can,

all neighbors down,

at last down,

for the dreaming, and

every wasp – daily, the yard's

plague – gone,

returned to

whatever shingle or board

roofs their now

thrumless heliport.

Tremblefoot,

mumbler,

you've left

your glass on the porch-railing

- neglect, as

what is fragile, seen

through,

but not at this hour empty:

the way disease does

the body, the way desire

can, or how God

is said to,

slowly rain fills the glass.

Never mind

that no kingdom was ever won

by small gestures:

I'm tipping the rainwater out.

The glass I'll put

here, where you'll find it.

He thinks I don't know about the morphine. I suppose that makes sense, in some ways. Normally I'd shove it in his face, tell him exactly why he was doing it and what it was doing to him. But then, seeing your best friend bleeding and flayed open and delirious…you can find a lot to forgive. As I stand out here on my balcony, I can see a half dozen trespasses that I will let slide. He's left his shoes right in front of the doors. He's been smoking cigars again out here. He's left a beer bottle on the patio table. A martini glass. Through the windows, I can see the pile of dishes that he should have washed. And if I press myself against the glass, I could see his naked feet hanging off my bed. It's criminal, to fall asleep so early when all I want to do is…

I imagine his toes curling, his back arching, and I move away from the sliding doors and away from the limited shelter of the awning. It's raining now, a symphony of Corona and Absolut. I grimace at the ashtray and its make-shift swamp, wishing he'd stop. And it's not about his health. I wish I could complain about it to him, but he'd know my motives. I'm transparent, these days. I don't know that I've always been. Still, he'd know that I just hate the smell on him. He'd know that I'd clutch him against me and miss the smell of him alone. And he'd never let me live that kind of sentimentality down. I'm not allowed to think that way about him, or about us. It's a rule. "No breasts," he'd said. I know he means more than fidelity. But again, maybe not. He needs me to stay true to the relationship we've had since we met. That's fidelity, isn't it? No matter what he might say, I do know what that word means.

I carry the martini glass over to the balcony and run my fingers around the rim, making it sing. I should go inside, to him, but…I do know about the morphine. And I know he's in pain again, even though he keeps saying that I was right. That it's just middle age. That he doesn't need the cane. My finger thrums against the glass and I wonder why it's so easy for him to sleep these days. I wonder if he's shooting up again. I wonder if he's found another doctor to write for him. I wonder if he doesn't trust me with his pain. I wonder if I'm a monster for feeling relieved by that prospect.

Eventually, I'll go inside. I'll trip over his shoes, do the dishes. He'll be warm under the sheets and he'll wake up long enough to give me shit about doing the dishes and I'll tell him that I didn't do them all. That I left the martini glass outside, just for him.

"My baby's growing up so fast," he'll say. "You'll make a fine housewife one of these days."

I'll have fun shutting him up. And maybe in the morning, he'll tell me why I was standing out there in the rain.