Sonnet XIX: Quiet, Quiet

I want the husband whom I once beguiled
to know the deepest thoughts I have to share,
but if I tell him how I think, he'll stare...
He'll be confused; he'll puzzle, quiet, mild--
for even in his fury, he's not wild--
but he'll be angry, he'll be scared. I care
too much to hurt his feelings. I don't dare.
He'll be annoyed and call me such a child...

That's why I won't reveal, in any case,
that sometimes I, to dull my aches (or try),
imagine someone punching in my face,
envision shredding up our mattress by
acquiring knives and stabbing through the lace,
that after he has gone to sleep, I cry.