The dishwasher is broken
and I am standing over the sink
eating cold, sweet watermelon
right out of the Tupperware
that I put it in last night
after meticulously trimming off rinds
so I could be sure it would all fit
in the refrigerator
after my husband
(who doesn’t like watermelon)
bought one–absurdly large–
at the grocery store, since he neglected
to choose a smaller one from the CSA
while I was out of town.
I have juice dripping down my chin
and I watch the oven preheat
thinking about the division of household labor
and how I had to remind him to set an alarm
so he would remember to pick up our kid
from the bus stop this afternoon
and how he is just doing his job in his office
while I am writing this poem, and also
baking meatballs and roasting broccoli
and boiling ravioli and planning tomorrow
and enjoying the lingering sweetness in my mouth.
These equations would be so simple
if he wasn’t working two jobs
and floundering in his ADHD
and never getting quite enough sleep;
or if I had a job outside the house
and worked for pay and had a dollar amount
put on the value of my presence and my time.
But instead it is as complex as life is,
and nothing is clear here about fairness
or balance, or anything, really,
except the way he bought me watermelon–
lovingly, abundantly, apologetically,
after he forgot.
