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.
The moon is bored.
This is a place where things have not happened
in a very long time.
Ash shifts in the wind.
A stone almost tilts.
And yet that shadow has an arm –
and a match
Beneath the whitest pearl sky
the scent of pink lemonade wafts.
The sun is glass.
Fields trimmed in lace.
Hoards of human paraphernalia
burning, under the magnifying glass.
It’s the life of white to destroy in gentle tides.
The bitter angels in us,
the blacker angels outside.
My blood pearls. A necklace to wear.
My spirit in my high heels. Give me a scotch.
Give me talcum powder.
Embalm the fog that veils my name.