cunt. bomb.
Coming Soon: February 2019
Wednesday's Wife
I am Wednesday’s wife
and you arrive fresh from 
the train with your crooked
smile and smell of the city
on your clothes and in your hair.
I have been playing good
woman all day –
all day soaping laundry,
boiling tea leaves and even scrubbing
the shit from the dogs’ kennels – 
 
all in the name of the wooly
musk of your maleness.  I didn’t
find your lost set of car keys
Love and my disappointment 
was a dangerous sadness.
Today, I cried when I murdered
five blue bottle flies with the hot pink
swatter we bought from the thrift store
their oily bodies smeared across the kitchen window.
How could I mourn such pitiless creatures?
Such insignificant blood?
What new meekness is me?
Where is my flaming bra?
The delightful shuddering
fault line that you provoke,
with a single finger
a sideways glance
stirs me to a maddening surrender.
I am Wednesday’s wife, Thursday’s martyr,
a penny-pinching Friday mother.
I greet you at the door
like a loaf of starch white bread
like a commercial for laundry detergent
or Stouffer’s Triple Cheese Casserole.
I search your eyes for the weather.
It is five o’ clock everywhere in the world.
If you were a woman
perhaps I would 
take up no such issues
with my easy submission
but that was an old courage
that failed me long ago
and the tall masculinity of
you is a familiar robe
we are the newfound 
apprentices to our shared silences
 – waiting 
I could curl up like a lapdog
and let you watch me die
let you crush me with your
oh-so-larger-than-life love
I could slip the knife from
the woodblock and hold it
to my own neck to save
you the time
instead I shave the carrots
with it
insidious in its sharpness
laboring beneath my deft fingers
dicing potatoes, cutting chicken
from bone, paring away the
gristle and fat and meat of life
You settle into your evening
your shoulders a big chair
your comfortable love.
You eye me like a high-ball.
In the kitchen the water
is coming to a frantic boil.
Pots spit an urgent steam
from the side of their 
metallic lips, murmuring 
something 
something
indecipherable.
I lean recklessly
over the open range,
the heat of it enflaming 
the skin over my breasts
ear close as to not miss
a single sound of these 
individual flames
each pan sizzling
a new sing-song
that sounds like this:
Dinner is almost done, dear.
Dinner is almost
done.
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