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So this is how you become
someone you don’t recognize.
It’s not age or error or even compromise —
It’s doing the right thing at the right time.
Like: it was right to spend time cooking
with the man who will be your spouse.
You’re not cooking *for* him. The domestic is neither
mystique, for you, nor mystical. It was just
the act of doing something together:
you measured out the flour, he whisked in the eggs.
You ate the product together, each thanking the other
as if that one person were responsible for the whole.
And in the end, that’s true: you’re each responsible
for all of it, and you’re such responsible people.
You’ll make good spouses. You’ll make a couple.
That joining of things is now in your repertoire.
And yet — you feel discomfort. Your spider senses
report disarray. There’s a feeling of displacement
despite the soothing, tireless build of life.
You didn’t realize how much you knew yourself
through disobedience.

 


Sian M. Jones received an MFA in fiction from Mills College. Her work has appeared in The Montucky Review and the Eunoia Review, among other publications. In her day job, she writes as clearly as she can about complex code. She occasionally updates jonessian.com.

© 2020, Sian M. Jones

One comment on “Domestic Acts, by Sian M. Jones

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