Poet as Housewife

Always a broom leaned against a wall, 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.