I too have smuggled my life through every conceivable hour—
heard the doorbell and hid, bitten the salt covered lime and my tongue.
I can’t imagine how I should be.
Sometimes the wind witnesses
tantrums in me. I walk quickly through alleys,
sneer at strollers— those sorts of things.
will not ring if I want it to. I will open
the fridge to an absence of milk. These are certainties
regardless of virtue.
I concede that
I’ve been an unforgivable mistress and write
love letters to men who’ve moved away. They
won’t come back, and what’s it matter?
This is love’s venue anyway.
Do the days watch my figure? Certainly they’ve changed my face.
Every stroke and scar is an Indian summer
I’ll never feel. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything.
The seasons are specifying forever, lifting their tattoos.