The way she cleans
puts away the day
into lopsided drawers that do not shut
well even on easy days
their contents lost in shuffle and exploit
planes over head, mornful drone, a whine
of grief as they attain height
her hands chapped from slapping herself
back to life
rivets run like zippers down her nails
a light somewhere is extinquished
another turned on, sudden furnace, shadows
vanquished, she has not drunk
all day, for the trembling in her hands
betrays the wait.
Dusk smears sky, oranges hang like
tired bosoms pressed in a woman’s dress
amidst plump leaves, blue-black birds
caw their hunger into the cavernous pitch, cats
with arched tails, disappear potently, eternally
her ankles swell with want, her thyroid
a box of treasure, alight with waiting in chocolate dusk
she dozes in her reverie, business put away
the calm of darkening, a hot bath scalding
dry air with its promise, oils filling her nostrils
pungent and wistful, infusion of sorrow
she remembers when
they lay together without fault
or breakage
the outline of their union
a mandala, with complicated lines leading back to circles
drawn in henna, indigo, cheap car paint, permanent in bare footed sprint
poured into a tattoo gun in the wild hinterlands of Canada
stabbed in little sticcatto for her eternal, sea sick
pleasure.
She lay then, thinking of
burning up
like fireworks
set alight to bloom and bloom till dry of pollen
in empty skies void of furtherment
she wanted to melt
the snow as she walked back
alone and hurting, wounded by her own loathing
a cigarette in her mouth
pressed against clenched, chipped teeth
and you? You were far off like winking lights in sea storm
and you were so far then… gone
without being gone
As is so much of life. Waiting. Closing curtains. Wrapping away disappointed hours
to bed, to claim, to screaming beneath wedged pillows
till the thankless clock in the downstairs anteroom chimes not
and without putting our heads in the oven even once
we are done
Done
Done.