x : Unknown

Poetry as History. History as Catharsis. Catharsis as Poetry.

Chore

It was just some dishes
petty and inappropriate

And if you can't learn that I am not your husband
I don't want to believe that this was a mistake.

And is there a secret thrill in watching our dirty laundry mount?
Does it make her a safe haven for sleep?
And where does she smile?
on her lips
in her red mirror
or in the shadowed eaves of her lonesome heart?