Domestic


She Snaps

I’m conflicted: posit it.
Am I a doily, a piece of Scotch tape?
And you’re an opera? (Only the good parts.)

Déjà vu: a pucker in the windowpane,
a cobweb that marries
one petunia to another.

Flag off. I wound up
reading a book under a tree,
smug. Ugh.


She Endures a Silent Thursday

Subtlety isn’t wasted---
It has not not been nice.

The cycles of nature
just floored me. Then

where did you get to?
There’s a big white thing

in here. Heliotropes turn
if you’re paying attention---

open that beguiling
fist, O nakedness!---

which I wasn’t.
And sliding all across

a tundra I wonder I wonder


She Searches for Something Beautiful and Significant

So here we are drowning in self-pity.
The world’s impersonal;
why love what can’t love back?

When we walk through
the ivy, the coldness is
so cold it feels cold.

A philosophical point
is being made.
Please speak. Tell us what it means.


She Makes A Curtsey

Flourish or haplessness?
The clarinet

is a narrative instrument;
it can’t get to me

like the flute, your
flute.

By the time I found
our meadowlike space

I’d learned watercolors were a
girly medium.

I wasn’t pregnant.
I wasn’t lactating

much. I ran out of lime green and was
running out of patience. Hon:

couldn’t you just let me be
the mother you need now?




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