kolmanlit
Domestic as a Plate
My twelve-year-old son,
who is beautiful,
reminds me
I did a wonderful job
as this forty-year-old housewife
here in this neighborly well-worn house.
He is my straight man.
Who else feels that way for me?
My kitchen, my refuge,
shimmers with soft loving light
while I sit
waiting for the usual things,
dinner and my favorite shows.
When I enter my muscular living room,
I feel the harsh brown wood
at odds with my previous pleasant mood.
There is no light texture,
as in the kitchen,
rather it is a firm, tough veneer
staring at me.
I am reminded all is not well somewhere.
I am only this housewife.
My son watches television with me.
He relaxes me, soothes my nerves.
He tells me thus that I love.
My bedroom is at variance, too.
Every time I walk in the colors
of my clothes closet accuse me
of being a fake.
I am not real.
But I feel real.
The mirror also fails to give a faithful image.
I feel that I've cheated life.
My husband respects us.
I close my eyes to any accusation.
I am glad to be in my husband's arms.
It is back in the living room
where the furniture has a tough glare
that I expect all family drama.
The kitchen endures as my oasis,
and I sit there with my daily coffee.
I can take all of life in this
resting place.
who is beautiful,
reminds me
I did a wonderful job
as this forty-year-old housewife
here in this neighborly well-worn house.
He is my straight man.
Who else feels that way for me?
My kitchen, my refuge,
shimmers with soft loving light
while I sit
waiting for the usual things,
dinner and my favorite shows.
When I enter my muscular living room,
I feel the harsh brown wood
at odds with my previous pleasant mood.
There is no light texture,
as in the kitchen,
rather it is a firm, tough veneer
staring at me.
I am reminded all is not well somewhere.
I am only this housewife.
My son watches television with me.
He relaxes me, soothes my nerves.
He tells me thus that I love.
My bedroom is at variance, too.
Every time I walk in the colors
of my clothes closet accuse me
of being a fake.
I am not real.
But I feel real.
The mirror also fails to give a faithful image.
I feel that I've cheated life.
My husband respects us.
I close my eyes to any accusation.
I am glad to be in my husband's arms.
It is back in the living room
where the furniture has a tough glare
that I expect all family drama.
The kitchen endures as my oasis,
and I sit there with my daily coffee.
I can take all of life in this
resting place.
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Domestic as a Plate
Domestic as a Plate
