I wanted to live a gabled life. Green eaves over
a lawn of wildflowers running down to a sea
at once gray and inviting, the kind of water
that could grind you to nothing but you wouldn’t
mind, no, you wouldn’t mind being just a tiny thing,
a smoothed over pebble the size of a pinprick.
I never thought I would think the thought
I’ll have to wash the dishes at least 10,000 more times
before I die. I thought I would grow into the shoes
I tried on as a girl, but instead my toes sprouted
claws and I walked around scratching the dirt.
I wanted to dream but instead I stayed up all night,
poured scalding tea and stirred it with
my finger. I’d thrown away all the spoons
because I never wanted to wash another spoon
again. I didn’t want to think about the price of milk
or revolutionaries lopping off the heads
of kings and kings’ daughters like the tops
of daisies. I wanted to walk the old road
by myself at night and not think about walking
the old road by myself at night. I wanted
an old woman to come to me at night and hug
me so hard my bones broke. But she never
came. And now I stand here, with my arms
outstretched. I know what you’d like me to do.
I’ve been there before. That’s my sweat
in your sheets. That’s my hair on your pillow.