IN BED WITH BALZAC.

A woman and her book of Balzac and her boring man.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She puts down the Balzac
Book. Jack is still asleep.
The night had been one of
Those turn over and turn out

 

The lights without cuddle or
Sex kind of nights. She feels
Like bringing the Balzac down
On his head, smashing into his

 

Dreams, scattering his images
Of the Doyle girl to kingdom
Come. She holds the old book
Firmly in her hands, tightening

 

Her grip, sensing the hard cover,
The old leather, worth a mint
The bookseller had said. She
Pauses, contemplating, gazing

 

At his head. His eyes look so
Pathetic closed, harmless like
A child’s, as if he dreamt of
Childish things, innocent, worth

 

Kissing, holding, protecting.
He’d snored in the night, his
Deep sound vibrating the room,
Dragging the covers over his

 

Side of the bed. She lifts the
Book, the Balzac, The Black
Sheep, and brings it close to
His head, lets it hover there in

 

The early morning air. She sighs
And places the book down on
The bed, face down to save the
Place and pages she’d not yet

 

Read. Reprieved just for this
Time; better to have slept with
Balzac than the shite head Jack.

Reviews

[just rose.]

Oh, if men only knew what women contemplate while they're sleeping: universes and universes of doubt shrouded in objects and gestures. I like the redeeming sense of the man's sleeping innocence; you see what a big heart the woman has here, too, because he probably deserved that book on his face. But that's what you get when you bring a third into the bed.