Friday, January 11, 2008

pull

The plaid woman picking oranges
smells like dinner for her husband.
I wonder if I smell like selfishness,
or mushrooms.
Nutmeg, parsley, paper towels, garlic press—
the plaid woman probably remembered her list.
She probably knows how to make biscuits from scratch,
and has more than one use for her almond extract.

This is the way, this is the way, this is the way
of wedded things. This is how we come to be
lasciviously eyeing the cheese graters. This is how
we come to be wrestling with plastic wrap,
trying to save the leftovers. This is how we become
eternities of Teflon queens, lovingly filling the ice trays.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Push

I think you could smell like foxgloves,
The plants I have never seen.
I think you could smell like home,
The place we have never been.

I think you could smell like loss
Soundless like a frozen sea
I know you could smell like joy
Vivid like a tropical tree…

I’d like you to smell like hope
I refuse to accept the fact
That we can’t have another use
For that almond extract:)