Apology to My Husband’s Snore
You goosehonk, one-note oboe or contrabassoon.
Freight-train roar of a tornado cannonballing down
my childhood street, like the nightmares I used to have.
I try to hear you as a sound machine, soothing—
rain on roof, ocean waves, white noise. But you’re often erratic,
a metronome gone rogue or a sudden snarl startling me awake.
Some sleep through their lovers’ symphony,
find peace in the rhythm, the vibration. Or they use ear plugs,
which do squat for me. Once I hear your first note, I can’t unhear it.
You raspy kazoo or bagpipe drone, lowing loon.
My whisper, honey, you’re snoring might work
or a touch on his arm. In desperation, a shove. Momentary silence.
Then mouse-squeaks begin, soon to crescendo
into the dry-mouthed roar of a hibernation-deprived bear.
Once, when especially growly, I recorded you so he could know
my misery, my imprisonment.
But let’s face it, Snore: Really, it’s not your fault,
my mother-ears, even at this late age, too alert. And when you stop,
my fear (ear-rational) sets in. Does he have sleep apnea?
Was that his last breath?
Also, it’s my dang insomnia. Brain see-sawing: client calls, to-do lists,
showtunes—last night, Bernstein, I like to be in Amer-i-ca.
That’s when I’m jealous he sleeps like a child.
So near my ear: a piano’s low A, staccato or legato.
Foghorn on cotton-snuffed nights saving ships from rocks.
A howler monkey’s 140 decibels protecting its territory.
Oh how I love the nose but not the noise.
Can I learn to accept you as part of him, like a mother does her son
in prison for assault? I’m failing, my love like the zero in tennis.
You, a racket pinging balls, balls smacking a wall,
over and over and over and over.
Please don’t say move into the guest room. The cacophony
of his absence would only keep me awake. Sheets colder
than Mongolian winter. The air around me empty as an echo.
