Night after night, the cat saunters the hallway.
We sample wines from boutiques,
scotches from remote marshes.
You’re the ghost I’ve always wanted.
My womanliness is a textbook
that puts you to sleep. I make a pot
of angel hair for dinner—withered, illusory—
sloppily drain water from the sauce into the sink.

Once all of the real artwork is safe in a semi
on dry land and seven of ten grand pianos
have been saved, they tell us to go home.
In the blue light of your television screen,
the weatherman clings to his map,
pleads, “The sky is a reflection of the ocean.
If you want to see what’s wrong, look
in the mirror.” The ocean? This is farmland.
There’s nothing we can do but wait,
take the hit just like they did in Cedar Rapids.

Already, it’s too late. Our concerns are Baroque,
tightly wound, dismal plunks and pings
on a harpsichord. Low alto notes
won’t do anything for us now.

Now I wish to experience
the full expression of each word,
to let the body be tired and hungry.
To join the way the old masters believed:
in solitude, in the service of others.

Such thinking I wanted to keep—
like Sheeba’s throne. I ingested wheat,
milk, eggs laid by hens that were free.

This morning, those same thoughts came.
I rose and stepped toward the window.
Not a single bird on any branch.

Later, my body became a meadow
and like the white cow grazing
all night, I ate, let it grow. Fat
and full of agitation, I soured,
let it waste away. Large-small,

I lived as a bellows. There
was never a moment’s peace.
My mind blew everything over.

was a pool with aqua tile.
You waited till the others
left. Then released the rage
in your body—a cannonball,
frantic splash in a shallow end.

Now what hides inside me
is up-down, indigo-orange,
happy-unhappy. I confuse
self-love with self-pity.