So I Married a Paleontologist

I find her sobbing in a ball

outside her wardrobe doors.

"What troubles you, Mariska, dear?"

I step near to soothe and yet still she

does not move, save to slowly

part the portals ever slight

and peer inside with one wary jade

eye, alarmed, as if what is contained

may attempt perilous escape.

Her lips separate at last, yet barely

vibrate as she forms the words.

"I cannot hide them all," she whispers,

"They are many, they are strong;

I am small. I must bar this door

and bar it soon, buy a lock, melt

the key, erase the combination

from my memories. Never

ask the contents, Joseph, please."

I let her ramble onward, as she knows

not what she speaks, then grasp

her firmly in my arms, lift and

lay her on her mattresses, then kiss her

tear-slick cheek. I pause

to stretch. My knuckles crack.

My fingers pop. I stride with purpose

to her wardrobe doors. I fling

them wide and wait until my eyes adjust.

Dust motes bend on currents like

corpse-bound wakes of buzzards.

Behind draped blankets, shawls,

hooded sweatshirts, scarves,

and stacks of boots and shoeboxes,

knobs of bones protrude. "Silly girl,"

I say, "I see nothing but your teaching kits,

to introduce your kids to paleontology."

A Mr. Thrifty dangles from a pole,

every piece of plaster labeled, from cranium

and sternum to pelvis and metatarsals.

A miniature sabre-toothed tiger's remains,

plastic, yellowed from age,

stalks faded antique picture frames.

I feel a smirk appear as I spy the aids

and clothes - a prank to play now formulates.

The skeleton I adorn in offbeat fashion,

a football helmet and padded brassiere,

thick glasses and a camo jacket. The tiger's

paws fit boxing gloves and knitted mittens.

Underneath a baseball cap, his sabres spear

a cigarette. My work complete, I drag

them right behind the wardrobe doors.

I close them softly, turn and smile. "You may

hate me for awhile, but you'll laugh at them

one day, and push them gently to the side."

Expecting questions and a scream to rise,

I seek a quiet place to hide and wait.

Exiting, I hear she moans and snores, no doubt

twitching as she dreams of all those bones.

©2010 Richard Saunders