Saraswati achieves householder perfection and razes the garden

Monday, July 15, 2019
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


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.
Monday, July 15, 2019