The Seven Deadly Sins of Marriage

The Seven Deadly Sins of Marriage


Envy

How odd to be jealous of one's lover's
long ago lovers, when one should thank them
for their various failures. And strengths.
And odder, this desire to rank them.

As she must rank them, but will never say.
Where is the handsome Christian? Or the
one who said he wasn't married? Or the
short British man whose parents were
far from fun?

And what about the existentialist
who kissed as well as she swooned
in the street, but was far too rational
to feel joy? I celebrate the men
who preceded me--

Just as the bank celebrates each debtor--
because they made me look
so much better.

Pride

A female fan, upon meeting my wife,
said, "Oh, wow, you must have a wonderful
life since you have such a wonderful
writer for a husband. That book,
THE FISTFIGHTER,

Is so charming. Your husband must be
charming too." And my wife thought,
"What an illiterate fool!" Only a poet's
spouse fully learns the truth:
We writers are the worst kind of cruel,

Because we worship our own stories and
poems, and what human can compete with
metaphors? Writers stand still and yet
vacate our homes inside our fantasies.
We are word-whores,

With libidos and egos of balsa wood.
We'd have sex with our books,
if only we could.

Gluttony

If I were single, would I be thinner?
Do I overeat because I don't compete
with the flat-bellied bachelors?
Or do we thick husbands look and feel
thicker whenever

Our wives see a slender man? Or does it
matter? Of course it matters. I can't
stick with any weight loss plan, and
though my extra twenty won't shatter

Any scales, I despise my love handles,
and often feel ugly and obese.
But my lovely wife always lights the
candles, disrobes, and climbs
the mountain called me,

Because wives can love beyond the body
and make mortal husbands feel holy.

Greed

Every summer, my wife travels to France
to spend a week or two with her good
friend. Of course, my sons and I welcome
the chance to de-evolve and cave it up,
and yet,

I sometimes wish that my wife gave me all
her love and attention. But it's selfish
to want such devotion. There should be
walls inside my marriage. My wife can wish

For more privacy and solitude
without me thinking it cold or rude.
She should have friends I rarely meet,
if ever, and I shouldn't let my needs

Become demands, but when I'm most alone,
I often wish my wife was always home.

Sloth

To save time, I put the good pots and pans
in the dishwasher and ruined the damned
things. And once again, my wife can't
understand how thoughtless I can be. And,
again, I sing

The same exhausted song: "I forgot. I forgot."
When left up to me, the bills go unpaid,
the fruits and vegetables go unbought,
and the master and twin beds go unmade.

Once, when a teacher wondered why our son
spend so much time lying on the classroom
floor, my wife said, "Because he's seen it
often before." On a basketball court,
I will madly run,

But anywhere else, I will use sedate
opportunites to pontificate.

Wrath

In the hotel room next to mine, women
talk and laugh and keep me awake 'til
three. Exhausted and soaked with sweat
and venom, I stare at the walls and think
of twenty

Ways to get revenge for their selfish
crimes. At five a.m., as I walk by their
door, I pocket their PLEASE DON'T DISTURB
sign. And then, from my taxi to the airport,

I ring their room. "Who the hell is this?"
asks a woman, still drunk and irate.
And I say, "Hey, I just wanted to wish you
a good morning and a great fucking day."

When I tell my wife about my adolescent
rage, she shrugs, rolls her eyes
and turns the page.

Lust

Yes, dear wife, we were younger and slender
(and damn, I had terrific hair and clothes).
Our marriage was new, exciting, and tender.
Naked in front of me, you still felt exposed,

And I had yet to learn how to touch you
properly. But now, sweetheart, I have
memorized the curves of your breasts, belly,
and thighs, as you have memorized me,
and if we do

Each other less often than we should or
need, then we can blame time's ground and
pound and not the lack of carnality,
because, D, I still want to lay you down

Hour by hour, and make you cry for more,
as I cry for you, adoring and adored.

Sherman Alexie

from his book FACE.