Quarrelsome boas cannot decide who will
take my inner drive
and so it is passed back and forth like a dish rag.
I once did the dishes all the time but hid from the stove.
Now the stove, dusters, sewing needles all hide from me.
I remind my back to stop bleeding.
It is enough the knife slowly turns.
Don’t advertise it.
In that house we gave nothing of ourselves,
because we admitted to nothing.
I am a fish still alive in the pot.
I hope the hag cooks with good wine.
I refuse to breathe the water,
absorb the wine
I am a woman for whom jetted tubs were made.
I step out of the vat
not even naked
with all the shame heaped on me,
and I strangle each snake for laughs.
Here is my drive
on the floor tired and pitiful.
But here is me.
deciding drive is not enough…
and I have more