The narrator is mopping the floor with my tears,
Which for him fall like rain through a hole
In the roof.
What promise this day had,
Born at the height of the malleable moon.
What now,
Since favor and faith and fancy have
Disinintegrated?
The narrator begins with an article
That will barely clothe me from the cold.
I have been outsonneted by a suction cup,
Clinging to my window like a starfish to the sea.
Lately my similes get away from me,
Dogs always unearthing hideous bones in
My backyard.
The curious climate of my moist mind
Is most conducive to marigolds, azaleas,
The pancreas.
My face is all sugar,
My tongue a cola.
See the stained glass the suction cup holds?
Memorabilia from an unremembered saint.
So many shades of blue,
No Blue
Circumference Blue
Film Strip Friday Blue.
I wore a flimsy film strip to the Blue Ball.
Cobalt courted me.
Yellow felt alienated.
Yellow did not go.
Green was the doorman.
My friendship with Sky and Navy and aquamarine
Has taught me how to talk with my eyes.
Nothing is louder than blue eyes,
Staring at me from the corner with the
Blossoming wallflowers,
Saying,
Dance with me.
Peace follows my soul –
Peace to hunters,
To prey,
To pray.
You are clear as water,
Eating azure threads of infinity .
Which flowers are nursing men along the river?
You do not know the catastrophe you will bring,
A spring thaw drowning everything under daylight .
The silence crouches behind my personality,
Stalking it.
Silence is a ghoulish hunter,
Seeking to drink the stark clarity of my water
And eat the bright blue impulses of my
Ever wakeful mind.
What stupid flowers grow by the river,
Not knowing a flood is coming to submerge them
In a chocolate brown night.
But if they knew,
What would the difference be?
I slow down,
Cover my ears.
This is my Imperfect hour,
Negative ideas multiply with negative space.
My crotch is steam.
Hold me, Madonna.
Remember that I am a child in this world,
Trafficking in pain.
Am I your neighbor?
Will you scorn me?
This is not my finest hour,
Thoughts encrusted with sin
Crotch raging and wet.
Hold me, Madonna.
Remember I am a child in this vast ageless world,
Writhing in ecstatic agony.
What did you feel on your wedding night,
When you realized the black terror of earning your
Scandalized neighbors?
Canisters of cold line my pantry shelves.
I nourish my soul with frigid ozone,
My stomach boiling and desperate for relief.
Why this internal inferno?
Can I learn to be a tepid meadow of placid terrain?
The floor is a guess,
is clear like water.
It is raining June in my hair.
My clothes are brimming with butterflies.
I am a sour after note to their beauty.
I was born to rise
to shatter sky.
Instead a jealous math
embalming me
Fills me with mud.
Women are supposed to love and serve their husbands. Husbands are supposed to serve their wives as well, but that is not the topic of this post.
How do you serve your husband? Do you get up to get him a drink? Do you serve him food? Many women seem to be uncomfortable with this idea but I would argue that doing these things is a good. It is probably something I need to do more often in my own marriage. That’s not to say that your husband can’t ever get up and get you a drink, but ladies, when did we become so turned off by the idea of serving our men?
Yesterday I gave up. Craig had had a bag that he brought home from the ship that had been sitting in the laundry room in front of the dryer for weeks. I had been waiting for him to take the time to organize his stuff and put away the bag. But I just gave up and took the bag out of the laundry room and put away as much of his stuff as I knew how to put away and put the bag in an inconspicuous place out of the way. And it actually felt good. My husband is a very busy man and he does a lot. This was one less thing for him to have to do. Now I’m not great at organizing so the stuff that I didn’t know what to do with and left in the bag he’ll have to address eventually, but I put away everything in the bag and sorted out the trash to the best of my ability and now I don’t have to bother him about the laundry room. And our laundry room looks nicer.
When Craig cuts the grass, one of the ways in which he serves me and our family, I always go out and bring him a glass of ice water. I think this is important. Yes he could walk back into the house and get himself a glass of water but as his wife I want to get one for him.
I wash my husband’s laundry, but do I put it away for him? Most of the time the answer is no. And while I don’t think that I should have to put it away for him since I am already washing it for him, wouldn’t it be nice if I put it away out of love sometimes?
What am I overlooking? How can I serve my husband better? Is there anything he doesn’t like doing that I can take over instead? Can I do housework in such a way as to serve and honor my husband? What do you do to serve your husband?
Miniature Moon 