One Story Leads to Another...
You could not leave your weaving
long enough to feed an old dog,
last white-muzzled link to your husband,
mirror image of your own fidelity?
Not bother, in the heated press
of supplicants, to bathe him, brush
I can’t. I won’t.
I’m sick.
I’m tired.
I’m busy.
I didn’t get the message.
I was at my sister’s.
No, I’m not bored.
Yes, I love you.
No, I never loved you.
The bed begins to smoke and char.
Suddenly, you’re sleeping on the floor.
One thing after another flares, turns to ash,
until at last the house itself goes up,
They forget who they are—
my lovely aunts with berry-stained lips
and Midnight perfume. My darling uncles
sent off with handkerchiefs
bleached and stuffed in their shine-worn suits.