I have decided
that my life is her
dare. One that I shout
fuck against in this
thawing month that weeps
like a wet corner
of bread, stupid
flesh that I am
decided to fail. Who
am I to press a mark
on something that
tired? Instead,
I have decided
the bearded irises
stiffening in my
engagement vase
make a better image
for you: this starred opaline
glass and the plum-
and-yellow strike of their
throats opening.
Let me suggest
their crinoline
gesture in the kitchen
might recall my
dancing, all trick hip
and funk, and not
the calcium stomp
of this other woman
whose name
I have just learned
to pronounce, this
woman who ripples
beside me, sweating
and close, shifting
in her steel-
pin stilettos
and harnessed in
her best
black dress.
