Saraswati achieves householder perfection and razes the garden
Lightning bugs bedazzle
your perfectly-trimmed rose-
bushes. Inside, steam
dampens – storms hung. A quiet
of spices on stove, tastes tempting without unruly announcement. A wall
of frames – graduations, ceremonies, lineages boxed into a measuring
tape of satisfactions, hall of acclaims & subtle boasts. Laundry
stacked sober aside each dresser drawer. Your 2.5 children, reading serenely.
36 e-mails written, 9 texts replied, 1 husband’s needs anticipated, elaborate memo dictated
to self.
Your clothes are tailored but this body
somehow doesn’t fit you. This capitalism
somehow doesn’t fit you. This home
clings too snug. A crease
in skin that emulates desire – without spark. A twilight sits, growing
silences.
This repetition is my suffering, suffering
my repetition.
Painted women turn to birds. Painted
women turn to birds
without beaks.
You seek to unravel repetition. Offer a mud-
laden shovel to the blue-tiled floors. Before you
know, your formidable tiger
lily feeds the earthworms. Your
splendid sunflowers submit
to a hand as scythe. The peach
roses snap with your teeth. Your tongue
feels fire, electric with creatures out
of place. At last, you teach
thorns a new way to bite.
