by Svetlana Litvinchuk
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| AI-generated graphic by Shutterstock for The New Verse News |
My American husband wants a quiet life. He’s ready for it
to be predictable again, as it unfolds across the flat,
easy soil in the American Heartland. He says he knows
what to expect from people there.
He’s nostalgic for the kindness of strangers
holding doors open for one another and for all
the seasons to parade in and out in an orderly fashion.
He wants rectangular plots of easy to tame lawn
and fresh cut barbecue Sundays where the wildest
thing is grass prairie housing clean water in gleaming
towers.
He wants starchy cuisine swimming in dairy, lactose
intolerance be damned. He craves a place so bland
that they ship newscasters there for vocal training
to drop any accents that might offend.
We’ve entered the low-drama era of our lives.
The low-stakes, low-excitement Zen that urbanites
don’t know they’re missing.
He wants toothless fish that surrender to the hook
from stocked lakes in subdivisions so that he can
appear capable of anything, heroic in the eyes
of our daughter.
Soon she’ll take her first steps. So, it is time to decide
on our preschool of choice, their waiting list coveting
our checking account. We’ll roll around the cul-de-sacs
in the comfort of our Sienna minivan, a synecdoche
of a humble family life.
We’ll choose our couple-friends, who will also be
parents and he’ll swig beer with someone named Chris
by the grill while I’ll have low-voiced table chats
with someone named Emily as we keep watch out
the sliding glass door as our children play in the yard
and there will be
no war planes flying overhead and we will be
so safe that we’ll have the luxury of taking for granted
just how safe we are.
to be predictable again, as it unfolds across the flat,
easy soil in the American Heartland. He says he knows
what to expect from people there.
He’s nostalgic for the kindness of strangers
holding doors open for one another and for all
the seasons to parade in and out in an orderly fashion.
He wants rectangular plots of easy to tame lawn
and fresh cut barbecue Sundays where the wildest
thing is grass prairie housing clean water in gleaming
towers.
He wants starchy cuisine swimming in dairy, lactose
intolerance be damned. He craves a place so bland
that they ship newscasters there for vocal training
to drop any accents that might offend.
We’ve entered the low-drama era of our lives.
The low-stakes, low-excitement Zen that urbanites
don’t know they’re missing.
He wants toothless fish that surrender to the hook
from stocked lakes in subdivisions so that he can
appear capable of anything, heroic in the eyes
of our daughter.
Soon she’ll take her first steps. So, it is time to decide
on our preschool of choice, their waiting list coveting
our checking account. We’ll roll around the cul-de-sacs
in the comfort of our Sienna minivan, a synecdoche
of a humble family life.
We’ll choose our couple-friends, who will also be
parents and he’ll swig beer with someone named Chris
by the grill while I’ll have low-voiced table chats
with someone named Emily as we keep watch out
the sliding glass door as our children play in the yard
and there will be
no war planes flying overhead and we will be
so safe that we’ll have the luxury of taking for granted
just how safe we are.
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| Photo from US European Command video of Russian warplane over the Black Sea |