the student's wife

My husband sits at the table now,

His books in his lap and on the surface

And on the floor near his feet.


He scribbles and then stops,

He shuts his eyes and opens them,

His brown pupils dance.


I watch from the door,

Imagining the wheels of his mind

Whipping like a factory – sweatshop.


People ask me if medical school is hard.

“It’s not me doing it,” I tell them,

“Don’t ask me.”


But I know, even if I don’t say it.

The long nights that stretch to early mornings,

The tired eyes that only rarely dance now.


He looks up as I enter.

“How are you?” he asks, not knowing I was watching him

and for a moment I can’t speak.


There is a lump in my throat,

Always there whether I push it aside or not.

A lump that is synonymous with love.


“Good,” I force, but I want to say more.

I am tired, I am lonely, I am bored.

I am proud. Oh my God I am so proud.