Sylvia and I
In the kitchen I drink
I love the way we share secrets,
the way we are secrets.
The children are at school
and I don’t know why.
You can’t be taught to be radiant,
to sew your smile on each dawn,
to pour yourself like perfume from a pitcher
all over the house when you are empty.
Let’s stir our drinks.
The ice is so officious,
teaching us how to die with grace.
There are no cookies to bake in the waiting oven.
We just can’t be that sort of women.
My ice clanks,
The room is paler.
We burn deeper
if not brighter.