As Night Falls
red, yellow and green
get ready for bed.
Deep blue, grey and black
arrive to tuck them in.
Some Things Require Suffering
I turn into a mad woman,
panicked, certain of doom,
when my husband phones for help
to clean our espresso machine.
The chemical can ruin kitchen counters.
I want information and a plan.
My husband wants it done. Like a therapist,
the male technician listens as we argue.
My husband has the machine ready to go.
Stop, I scream. I rush for plastic.
He lifts the machine. The tarp
I found doesn't fully fit. Stop, I scream.
I rush for towels. He lifts again.
We're not ready. We need
the right container for the solution.
Unruffled, the two men talk.
My husband opens the lactic acid
over the sink and I tell him,
This is what's dangerous, and he says,
No, you are. I leave the room.
I have to go back. Save what I can save.
The machine chugs and spits poison.
I chug and spit poison.
Some things require suffering.
The two men finish.
They couldn't have done it without me.
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Don't Fence Me In
A man leads two mules on the sidewalk
past a café and an art gallery.
Cars stop. People stare.
I read about Mule Man in the newspaper
when he came through town two years ago.
He moved into my mind, his way of living—
travelling the West twenty miles a day,
eating oats, rice and canned green beans.
Some yards have invisible fences and
dogs wear collars that shock them
if they cross the property line.
People have fences too. My collar buzzes
when I stray too far. Some of us have
small yards and some have grand estates.
The Mule Man has the whole West.
I'm grateful he moved into my mind,
lets me settle at a creek, tend the mules,
fix a small fire, warm rice and beans,
and hold solitude. When solitude shifts
to loneliness, I talk with my mules,
with the wind that lets trees speak,
with the sunset, darkness, moonlight,
and with the rock I sit on. I thank
the mule man who brought me here.
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