Quarrelsome boas cannot decide who will

take my inner drive

and so it is passed back and forth like a dish rag.

 

I once did the dishes all the time but hid from the stove.

Now the stove, dusters, sewing needles all hide from me.

 

I remind my back to stop bleeding.

It is enough the knife slowly turns.

Don’t advertise it.

In that house we gave nothing of ourselves,

because we admitted to nothing.

I am a fish still alive in the pot.

 

Temperature rising.

Temperance gone.

I hope the hag cooks with good wine.

 

No.

I refuse to breathe the water,

absorb the wine

I am a woman for whom jetted tubs were made.

I step out of the vat

not even naked

with all the shame heaped on me,

and I strangle each snake for laughs.

 

Here is my drive

on the floor tired and pitiful.

But here is me.

Knives removed,

stripping naked,

drying off.

drying out,

deciding drive is not enough…

and I have more

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