Poet as Housewife

meals never on time, if they come at all.

Days without dates through which she moves

empty and stubborn, slightly confused.

Ironing hung dejectedly over a chair,

gestures that come from who-knows-where.

Old letters unanswered, piled together,

papers and pills stuffed deep in a drawer.

Thankful to be part of your heart’s great whole

yet devoted to the limits of her own small skull.

O orderly biped, take heed,

leave her alone—let her read.