Stability Is a Feeling

I am doing nothing with my exile

of a life.

I go to the supermarket Saturday

on walks in the wilderness

of America on Sunday. I get thin.

I encourage the man I married

to work hard

at a career I don’t admire.

He is not sweet or funny.

He is as steady and strong as death.

I find myself horrified

of the future; the woman I want to be

is implausible. Voicing

my tender ideas is not possible.

The book of poems inside me

is desperate for morning.