Scuffed shoes, white blouse skirt the house—neck, a hung glass charm and chain—

lawnmower takes to rolling—blue fleas 
fly in each other’s paths as fireworks on 4 July.

Here in my harness you carry me,
your husband’s lists of abuses nursed

and lucky mosquitos land
for supper on my pink, exposed skin atop my head—

you talk—silent this morning I stare astounded at your smile
trying to hide my sheepish bulldog grin,

and telephones rang when light parted
the curtains, you wondered where to begin, where with

the children, could the dog wait to go outside
in this rain? Grass tall uncut for two weeks—you placed

four paws in muddy garden, wiped each off,
and this morning the babies asked about their absent father.

The male gaze some say is much too much for modern women,
no matter how forthright or well intentioned.

He craved a taste of lively Kentucky and the south end of Louisville
where the women were hard enough for any man around, or Spain

where they laughed uproariously at a flirt,
and when the oceans in their eyes boiled—dropped to the tiles, thrusting 

men down, slipping 
brass rings in their noses

like matadors and nudged these bulls through the town.
But then, you were indifferent.

He said “I can’t even say ‘I love you’ anymore, and it strangles me.” 

She takes off her shoes while the kids carry on,
and walks in the grass, the downpour bounces off her ankles,

and wets her pajamas—I whine begin to shiver
let me in Mommy where my chicken breast warms with sticky rice

in a bowl—rugrats fix their flapjacks
about to scoot away without their socks—she hears the phone ring

but won’t pick it up. She thinks:
                There’s time to cut these ropes
                before I choke.                                                                                              
                Devil has my family
                by the throat.
                I resolve it is not his doing.  
                I say it is. 

If I could speak through my bark and wiggles, I’d toss my head up and say—     
                I’m here for you Mommy. In and out of the room you go. 
                You’ve told me kindly—keep off the couch. I can hear you crying
                as you dry me from the drops and change my blue vest. You cry
                everyday, I know, and

I can’t stop with your scuffed shoes and white blouse skirting the house—