"Ritual" by Cord Moreski
Franky can’t live with the idea of hurting somebody.
So every morning before work, he performs a ritual.
First, he starts in the kitchen with the stovetop oven
sniffing the air for gas and checking that the dials are off.
Next, he unplugs the toaster, the slow cooker, and the juicer,
measuring that each wire is exactly six inches from any outlet.
Until finally, he inspects the bulbs of the crystal chandelier
hanging over the dinner table, the wall lights in the hallway,
and the several table lamps scattered in the living room,
snapping them each OFF then ON then OFF again
as if he is signaling his own distress.
And most of the time he has to start all over again.
And most of the time he forgets to say goodbye
to his wife and children as they sleep through his compulsions.
He is too busy protecting them anyway.
Franky can’t live with the idea of hurting somebody.
"Wrinkles" by Cord Moreski
He tells her about the affair
and she rushes into the bedroom
her body language
untranslatable.
She heads for the closet
with an open suitcase on the bed
he leans against the doorway
as she gathers her clothes.
She doesn’t blink a tear
he doesn’t utter a word
the case clamps shut
on parts of a rumpled blouse.
She stares at the garment's creases
and then back at him
before she finally storms past
slamming the front door behind her—
she’ll iron out
the wrinkles tomorrow.