<\/p>\n

Her Chair<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

My mother must have been tired<\/p>\n

of being mother, wife, some patient\u2019s<\/p>\n

nurse, tired of a house of dust<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

and abandoned appliances<\/p>\n

drained of their usefulness,<\/p>\n

of house keys, doormats,<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

throbbing of my father\u2019s TV<\/p>\n

and ringing telephone, his primitive<\/p>\n

remote slipping beneath easy<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

chair cushions. Home from work,<\/p>\n

seeing spilled toys, clothes, books,<\/p>\n

my dolls with their dead faces,<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

why was she never tempted<\/p>\n

to leave, seek quiet somewhere<\/p>\n

besides our crumbling house<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

with its falling kitchen tiles,<\/p>\n

gift-paper skeletons of past<\/p>\n

Christmases, fossils of my father\u2019s<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

home improvements, his threadbare<\/p>\n

underwear, soiled dress shirts, jeans?<\/p>\n

Home from the hospital wards,<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

long shifts of tending and mending<\/p>\n

strangers, didn\u2019t she have a right<\/p>\n

to refuse us dinner, refuse us<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

everything? But she came home,<\/p>\n

full grocery bags intact despite<\/p>\n

her walk from the bus stop,<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

despite our bathroom clutter<\/p>\n

of toothbrushes, washcloths,<\/p>\n

kitchen with the broken-clock<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

oven, living room<\/p>\n

with no recliner for her,<\/p>\n

no easy chair for her hard work.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

* * *<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Pediophobia<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 –fear of dolls<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Their eyes never close,<\/p>\n

these daughters without<\/p>\n

mothers\u2014toxic flesh,<\/p>\n

curls made of anything<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

but hair, mouths shaped<\/p>\n

into gaping holes<\/p>\n

that cry with no voices.<\/p>\n

I never wanted that doll<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

advertised on Saturday<\/p>\n

morning TV\u2014\u201dBaby Alive\u201d<\/p>\n

whose creepy face<\/p>\n

worked an imaginary<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

bottle, sucking and wetting.<\/p>\n

Little bottle, little diaper,<\/p>\n

all of it plastic, none<\/p>\n

of it real. What was she<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

preparing us girls for\u2014<\/p>\n

with her pink spoon and<\/p>\n

food you mixed with water,<\/p>\n

only to have her eliminate<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

it moments later? My<\/p>\n

childhood friends coveted<\/p>\n

her, tried to shove her<\/p>\n

in my arms, but I\u2019d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

push her back, not<\/p>\n

wanting her ever, no<\/p>\n

matter what color<\/p>\n

her skin, texture her hair.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Who needs a baby, <\/em><\/p>\n

I thought, who will always <\/em><\/p>\n

be mute<\/em>, mimic of life<\/p>\n

never living, never breathing?<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

* * *<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Sex: A Lesson<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Be attentive\u2014there are nuances<\/p>\n

you don\u2019t want to miss: heady steam<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

of your lover\u2019s breath, heavy as<\/p>\n

midnight fog, vulnerable skin<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

beneath an upward-tilted chin,<\/p>\n

lips awaiting lips. Big landscapes,<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

little plains, twists of curves, crepe-<\/p>\n

paper wrinkles: all need more<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

than furtive love, clandestine<\/p>\n

attention. Whatever strategy<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

you choose\u2014head-to-toe,<\/p>\n

shake, then shiver, soccer stadium<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

shoutouts—goals are to be savored,<\/p>\n

not labored, although lovemaking<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

is labor, its wages not of sin,<\/p>\n

but of surrender, of sinking in,<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

making room, limbs loose<\/p>\n

long liquid, bodies fluttering<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

with blood-pulse and heart-thrum.<\/p>\n

Traction meets attraction,<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

sweat meets sore, solace meets<\/p>\n

satiety, all our hungers heavy<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

as whispers, fleeting as centuries,<\/p>\n

slick as our wayward fingers.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

* * *<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Rondeau Redouble for the Women Left Behind<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The women mourn and hoist the coffins high,<\/p>\n

limp bodies of their husbands trapped inside,<\/p>\n

their shoulders strong, their burdens to the sky,<\/p>\n

their sons gone off to war. The coffins ride<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

upon the strength of women who have cried<\/p>\n

for lives they could not save, though they would try<\/p>\n

with prayer books and candlelight. Dull-eyed,<\/p>\n

the women mourn and hoist the coffins high,<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

dressed in damp widows\u2019 robes, they sanctify<\/p>\n

this meager stretch of beach, this grasping tide.<\/p>\n

Six women to each box, they dignify<\/p>\n

the bodies of their husbands trapped inside,<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

yes, brothers\u2019 bodies too\u2014no males to guide<\/p>\n

the village out of misery, no men to mollify<\/p>\n

the constant threat of death, of genocide.<\/p>\n

Their shoulders strong, their burdens to the sky,<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

their voices snagged in hymn, they glorify<\/p>\n

the Savior leading them to riverside<\/p>\n

where they will let these burdens go. Goodbye<\/p>\n

to sons gone off to war. The coffins ride<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

until they sink into the splash, collide<\/p>\n

and bang against the riverbank, deny<\/p>\n

an easy grief. Such pain too raw to just subside,<\/p>\n

the women mourn.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

* * *<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Ode to Sandals<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

How I\u2019ve missed your open<\/p>\n

comfort, your leather against bare skin,<\/p>\n

summer sun on straps, holding<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

my feet in with the ease<\/p>\n

only you provide. All this brutish winter,<\/p>\n

with its jagged winds and icy<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

spiteful sleet, I dreamed of you,<\/p>\n

of slipping my feet into you and striding<\/p>\n

off into a new adventure,<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

getting lost in damp grass newly<\/p>\n

wet from a neighbor\u2019s trippy sprinkler.<\/p>\n

You hate formalities, and I<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

love your aimless sexy ways,<\/p>\n

keeping me vulnerable<\/p>\n

but shod, strapped around my ankles<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

like a gladiator\u2019s, jubilant<\/p>\n

as I skip over stones and muddy puddles,<\/p>\n

sidewalks and streams, toes<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

bold to get wet, all the world<\/p>\n

lush with drinking spring, humid breath<\/p>\n

of summer lurking beneath.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

You make me strut, greatest<\/p>\n

dancer in the kingdom. I slip you on and off<\/p>\n

like a changeling, wear you barelegged<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

with swirling skirts. You care<\/p>\n

not for how much I weigh, if my back aches.<\/p>\n

Contained by you, my feet swell with joy.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

  Her Chair   My mother must have been tired of being mother, wife, some patient\u2019s nurse, tired of a house of dust   and abandoned appliances drained of their usefulness, of house keys, doormats,   throbbing of my father\u2019s TV and ringing telephone, his primitive remote slipping beneath easy   chair cushions. Home from […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[6],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-3346","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-poetry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3346","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=3346"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"http:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3346\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":3348,"href":"http:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3346\/revisions\/3348"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=3346"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=3346"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=3346"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}