Maybe I’m a good woman.
Maybe there never was another I wanted       more.
And maybe the face you still want me to kiss
wasn’t made to look like wind strewn sand
by sun and Winstons.             
Maybe I don’t suffer to be your release
when I am made arid by your indifference.
And maybe, as I clean our clothes, wash our dishes
you really wish to free me from my chains  

but you gave me plain stoneware dishes
for our anniversary,
said they reminded you of me 
and as I stand here over sink and drain
sending remains of our day into kitchen purgatory
I think
maybe             these dishes never wanted to be clean           
empty.
I think these dishes would tell me this –  

they are happiest
fulfilling their mandate to serve –
what they are told they were created for.
Maybe                         I should feel guilt
washing away their life           their dreams
of who they are                         or could be.
Maybe
who they are to others is invisible unless                  
empty.  

Can’t you feel the weight of them
and their fragility at the same time?
It is their fate to gather all that this world
will make them hold and cling to its remains – 
this purpose wiped clean every night
then imprisoned in a dark place until
awakened
again         again        again 
until                 lost or broken.  

Maybe I’m a good woman
maybe            
and maybe a good woman would drop them
enjoy the sound of their breakdown
the scream of shattered stoneware madness
that would free her at last