Can You Not See She’s Struggling

The bone of my bone,
the marrow of my marrow,
not the same, of another kind, for her
calmness, consolation
await.

I know her. 
I do not know her.   
She is – as I am beyond belief –
beside herself;
and now, how am I?

Can you not see she’s struggling?
Can you not? I am indifferent, turning sour. 
Beyond any felicity, repair,
dressed in silvery hatred. How stubborn — 
we love martyrs.