The Wheel 

Forty years on the rack and now
the wheel that kept you fine tuned and sharpened
has ground its weary cogs down,
flung its yoke around some hopeful twenty year old. 

You are free now,
children all gone..

The husband is still there though.
He glances up from his videos
long enough to catch a glimpse of the suntan commercial.

The kitchen is still there, but now you wander,
like a guest in someone else’s house.
Cookbooks with servings for more than two
seem foreign as Sanskrit. 

The washing machine is still there, double loader.
It takes a week now to gather enough for one small load. 
The sexy bottle of stain remover, 
reserved for bloodstains on underwear,
has been pushed to the back of the shelf.

Only death will bring blood to this house again. 


.

A Simple History

Two hundred years ago
a woman could not walk alone at night.
It was against the law. 

Now, her right to the shadows is guaranteed,
her right to walk freely until she is
grabbed,   punched,   strangled,   tortured,   raped,
left for dead,  or dead--
a blessing for some too shattered
to glue up the shards of a life. 

         The rapist and his lawyer sit together in the crowded courtroom,
         smiling, as if exchanging jokes.

         Another lawyer leads a girl in.
         Her blouse, uncomfortable and buttoned to the neck,
         is trying to strangle her.
         Her lawyer sees the defendant, 
         steps between them—
         too late! She sees the terrible hands,
         the slack mouth, the yellow teeth. 
         He looks up and grins
         as if acknowledging an old friend. 

She screams--.
and the screams echo through the halls
until the judge pounds his gavel, demanding silence.
But she keeps screaming until a policewoman is summoned
to lead her away. 

The rapist watches her.
Everyone is relieved she is gone.
Soon, he will be leaving too,
moving with the cunning of a cur dog
through parking lots, darkened hallways.
A canker worm
in the heart of the flower.

         A dress, sewn for a dance, hangs in a closet.
         Downstairs, the seamstress' hands 
         flutter in her lap like wingless birds.
         She is trying to free herself from her handkerchief
         The fingers have twisted it into knots. 

         Upstairs in a room, 
         she thinks she hears her girl child crying. 

Outside, 
spent leaves 
drift down.

Blown flower petals
litter the ruined garden. 

Masters Degree from Binghamton University. Taught a course in “The Pre-Socratics and Contemporary Poetry.” Won the Link Fellowship and was nominated for the Ruth Lilly Poetry Prize. Lived in the country among cows and found my best muse there. A lot of my work is concerned with the struggle of the more traditional woman/person in today’s dystopian society.