|Jul/Aug 2001 • Poetry • Special Feature|
Spouse Joins Military
It's house-selling time, and I can't move
from the expanse of porch to pack.
Eight espressos, and still my ass hunkers
in the wicker chair I haven't yet loaded.
Last year I painted the whole porch after
tearing up blue carpet stinking of snow
and mold and nine years of other people's
muddy feet. Last year I planted parallel rows
of bulbs, but the bastard tulips won't whisper
pink, just shriek fuchsia all over my lawn.
Sunlight spreads toward my toes, threatens
to drag me into the house, the house
that waits to blow itself apart.