Crickets run ghostly through the valleys of
a mother's rug, and
they break my heart (Lucky insects are
a privilege of the superstitious).
Chests creak wooden under the weight
of my body domestic. I am
bored by holly, ever green
never queen never thornier than
rose, cranberry,
gilded, stern-faced men.
Shame-tarps drape us (like the
envelope warming wedding invitations--
Humbert and Lo? Claudius and Gertie?
Unintimate woman with so-and-so?). My
care only knows low blows.
These words, thought after-thought,
trap and toss crickets.
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