The house is quiet now.
The mattress finally at rest
from all the exertions the couple
has put it through.
Each is so satisfied
there is nothing left to dream.
This is how they will pass the night.
And this is how the thief
breaks in, so quietly
neither the neighbors
nor the children this couple
has never had
take notice—
the tiniest black spot
just starting to settle in
on the crowns of the tomatoes
ripening on the sill—there
where the stems had been.
This poem began with observation. The rot on the tomato. Taking pleasure in its notice. The thing had not suggested the poem that followed. The poem itself started with the opening lines. I was meditating on satiety, imagining a satisfaction so complete between two lovers (childless!) that there is “nothing left to dream.” A desire for annihilation. La petite mort. Almost always, we come back to the world, just as we had left it. The fruits of their labors. The consequences. The crown and “where the stems had been.” Or, as Dickinson reminds us, “First — Chill — then Stupor — then the letting go —.”