Missing The Play

I'd rather be a soldier's wife
Alone on the brittle pins
Of grass and expectancy
Forgetting what it is to love

Than be here now, with him
Asleep with blank humanity, night
Stuffing my touch with its vast
And chokingly small space
I gather up the race of a hundred
Mislaid tasks and vomit
Fear into a room so small
That only a universe of husbands
Would be able to find it.