Lounge chair in the yard
the two boys off somewhere
to save themselves
to save you from yourself
time for an aspirin, bandage,
then off to the front lines again.

Birds fly wild in the trees
church bells stroke,
bring you back to plaid skirts
and undershirts, the comfort
of the known.

Belly down you watch an ant
carry a huge ball, green earth
with such ease.
You are trying with the help
of those who say they love you
to carry your own—or, maybe,
let it roll off for the first time
since you have been the motherwife
razored from a magazine
and hung on an appliance.

Some mornings you wake from a dream
saying I am the Madonna,
Calypso, Circe, Diana the moon goddess.
Worship or pay.
By afternoon you are just a
child-whore, a hungry rat
scratching through the walls.

You need the taste of Sunday mornings.
Each swallow song, voice of play
are wafers on your tongue,
wine black as ink to wash down these
obscenities.

The birds have gone mad,
chasing each other
from branch to branch
fluttering leaves as they go.