Romantic

by Margaret Atwood

Men and their mournful romanticism
that can't get the dishes done – that's freedom,
that broken wineglass
in the cold fireplace.

When women wash underpants, it's a chore.
When men do it, an intriguing affliction.
How plangent, the damp socks flapping on the line,
how lost and single in the orphaning air . . .

She cherishes that sadness,
tells him to lie down in the grass,
closes each of his eyes with a finger,
applies her body like a poultice.

You poor thing, the Australian woman
while he held our baby –
as if I had forced him to do it,
as if I had my high heel in his face.

Still, who's taken in?
Every time?
Us, and our empty hands,
the hands of starving nurses.

It's bullet holes we want to see in their skin,
scars, and the chance to touch them.