Domesticity

I see the daily failures—

the pots mocking my reflection,

unused,

the children unborn
from disease of the mind,

a husband far off
as the vanishing point.

Every page untyped
sitting Shiva at my bedside—

all those emotional wrecks
piling up like wooden leaves.

There are executive decisions
to be made about

the color of smoke in the sun,

the sound of static coming
out of everyone’s mouths,

naming the cellmate that
cratered in the room
last night like an apparition.

The trial of my heart
is long awaited—

gallows hung like
Christmas lights

across my forehead.