I am not the housewife of perfection
Saturated with gin and academic takes on subjectivity
I sit surrounded by summer sunflowers and the cosmos
I sowed beside the patio and wonder how to continue
in a body, in a world, that does not think it needs
this body, even as the planet turns, taking along
me, my dog, our companionable silence in waning sunlight.
I should sweep the patio, exile the effluvia of trees
and plants that fell here, tidy up the crumbs
beside the woodpile. I am not the housekeeper
of the backyard. I am not the housewife of perfection.
I reject the broom, the whisk, the great dustpan of time.
Shriveled flowers of linden, yellow leaves of elm,
curls of outer bark, here you may linger. Rest
beside the cricket, ready to serenade the diminishing
sun and warmth, the ants following the highway of sand
between the pavers, and the shucked body that was bee.
Cricket, genius of late summer, dutifully stridulating your wings,
this tune insists on the lowering of stage lights,
the show ending earlier each day, and a pause,
as if for applause, to gauge the audience’s investment.
The dog sits at attention, but his ears are tuned
to other sounds, his eyes on the street, watching children run home.
Merie Kirby
Merie Kirby teaches at the University of North Dakota. She is the author of two chapbooks, The Dog Runs On and The Thumbelina Poems, and has been published in several journals, including Whale Road Review, SWWIM, West Trestle Review, and North Dakota Quarterly, with work forthcoming in The Prose Poem and Scientific American. You can find her online at www.meriekirby.com.
