Wednesday, April 24, 2013


When I had Charlie, I became a child
and the lint in the laundry room rolled into sheep

springing like mooncows over the white willow trees
of drooping bra cups and shirtsleeves and socks

and the untended garden grew wild into Eden
where God walked slowly holding mud pies in each palm

and checkered dishtowels cloaked serving spoon heroes
falling sometimes to their silver doom in pits of sink

according to the heinous plots of winking knives
who were always, at the end, foiled.