perched at the kitchen table,
a solid front of caring, gargoyle for
distemper and immediacy,
she is direct and condescension drips.
"tell me, are you just getting by?"
the smirk is well-hidden, covered
in concern and caresses.
"don't you think you could be doing better?
don't you think you should be, could be--"
all the things that i am not:
an avalanche of agrarian simplicity;
sentences which slam into the sky
and spread neurotic, nuclear disease;
a narrative, simplistic, vilified
and thorough in follow-through,
standing on streetcorners holding babies;
the silhouette of femininity
pressed for time, pressed for tension,
pressed against brick walls outside clubs
by men with sweat and oil and scent;
a tide of oceanic schism,
wrenching waves apart for salt and glory.
"don't you think you could be doing better?
don't you think you could be more?"
maybe i will consider being more,
creating canyons greater than myself.