Housewife

Grateful skirts swirl in a breeze maybe meant for them.

Design is Holy,

is enamored of its Designer,

is a crossroads of means and ends.

A housewife manufactures sunshine in her laboratory,

the beakers from the store always having a sale,

her thesis supervised by green,

and critiqued by her children.

After 20 years who will know whether the

skirts were mended or replaced?

Just that they were infused with laughter

and smelled like mother in the living room

living with her eyes full.

 

Translated into Afrikaans and Xhosa, then back:

 

Skirts twirl in the grateful air
they were meant for.

Design and the Holy Spirit,

are enamored

of each other.

Is the intersection of the cross where it all begins?

The woman who produced the sun in her lab,

is studying all the ways you make happiness from the mundane.

Her thesis is green from watching her children.

After 20 years will you know that

the aprons can be repaired or replaced?

You will appreciate the humor.

She won’t.

 

 

skirts and gratitude for the atmosphere,

either of them.

Design and Holy Spirit,

make enamored designs,

are the ends on the cross.

The woman who makes the sun in her lab,

Her laboratory in Delaware furnished by a company

in Hong Kong.

Her thesis supervision is green.

So is the clock looking at her children’s energy,

their youth,

her youth.

After 20 years you will know that

the skirts can be repaired or replaced.

As you appreciate the humor in

And sort mothers by whether they baked cookies or used the microwave.

In her eyes you live fully,

live fully alone.

Advertisements

Marilyn Monroe as a Housewife

A congress of confetti has decreed

every wind must blow up.

The ground breathes.

I look like Marilyn Monroe as a housewife,

standing in my yard with my dress billowing around me.

My husband sees me with his eyes shut.

Hands open.

The hours I have given him clump between his fingers like cat litter

I will wash them with aloe.

I will dry them in silence.

Our daughter has been sequestered with the sequins

and she has sewn a shining dress.

See her straddle the breeze.

She learns from me.

Passing the Bechdel Test

Passing the Bechdel Test

 

A voice from a blouse

A skirt of leaves

They have immolated their wicker man.

They talk of flowers and the physics of particles,

of vacuous clothing and sumptuous books.

 

 

 

 

Yet beneath brocade and bead work and sneaking mist

there is a want

 

they feel

but cannot remember.

Anorexia 2

Food is excellent,

almost smells necessary.

So does everything that possesses you

 

If only people could turn off the clock and wean themselves from his

nefarious purposes…

 

You feel five feet wide and are at least 1.

On the counter,

chocolate in all his attractions. Do not listen to him.

Eat your salad.

This is hate.

Your teeth flicker on and off.

Your bones shrink in disgrace.

A Jealous Math

The floor is a guess,

is clear like water.

It is raining June in my hair.

My clothes are brimming with butterflies.

 

I am a sour after note to their beauty.

I was born to rise

to shatter sky.

 

Instead a jealous math

embalming me

 

 

Fills me with mud.

Dark House

Cruddy smells flake off the house and I know I shouldn’t be here.

No one has in faithless year after faithless year.

Knock it off.

I see you filching my backup plans from my purse.

God I wear blue well.

My soul is transparent like the cleanest lake.

 

I am without my numbers and shapes,

sewn from cotton fields.

I’m a doll you can love, hate, dissipate

A Love Like October

Singing into the bush

a lilac on a lark.

A love like October,

orange and fast.

The lilac has a heated language,

a boiling pattern of speech.

Frost is mute,

Abused,

Sinful.

The lilac leans toward the Bush

A waxy, evergreen sun,

needing shelter.

Pumpkins fight with lilacs.

Frost is the winner who takes all.

Yellow

Yellow reads the Kama Sutra

to write a new edition.

I admire her.

She admonishes me.

Lately I have rotted like wood,

muddled like a puddle.

Where is my orgasmic frenzy of doing

and being done?

Diary of Radiation

Diary of Radiation

 

The color of water, I race slowly and win.

See how I die without fanfare,

taking millions with me?

I adore the breeze.

I covet the air but do not need it.

At the crest of unbelief my candle bobs along

on an inflatable saucer.