Domestic Interior

Pain enters through an open window

and you say it is the wind.

It marrows into beams, gutters

walls. Still you insist:

All while it seeps under your door—

long having eluded the watchman,

fallen asleep at his post—and floods

the whole damn house. Come daybreak,

you are a different kind of  hostage now,

as it weeps into your bowl of porridge,

casts itself  into the misshapen face

gleaming back at you from a tarnished spoon.

In time, you will make your bed

with this new order. In time,

you will simply make the bed and lie down.