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3 Poems
by Anna Ivey armor and tourniquets After I marry Chad I do stupid things and get angry over not having to work in the summer. Irrelevant as a horse returning to its burning barn I wear armor and tourniquets to copper-cardinal sunsets and ballroom affairs. Something relents on a Monday night when I sob I am afraid of you because you never hurt me. His eyes grow luxurious. You have given me a corner. Take your two hands gripped on your heart. I could subside to him and the second skin became a marriage to a good man. the coursework of the poet We inhabit marriage as a set of river stones lining the row of gardenias. I cook lunches in bulk for us and plan the grocery list. Inventing candle scents becomes the coursework of the poet in the house. Aralyn goes to school with me and I can let take her to see horses or a movie. Yet my womb aches now after six months for another child. I do not know how to adjust to this desire since I shamed it for so long. A woman wanting a baby is a conniving being. He has softened but the words are pooled under my tongue. unfold the origami-words I bide my time as a tolerant priestess. In November we are alone in the kitchen and he asks why I am distant. It releases. I fold and unfold the origami-words. Rummaging and genuine and terrified. You’re shitting me says Chad. He wonders for days if I will stop drinking wine. Can I can manage not sleeping. Will I still work. Do I plan to keep writing. Will I complete my Phd and when. Is it clear to me that we cannot give it back once it is here. That we must pause the plans for the house. That we are not giving it away to our parents to raise for us. That nothing before frees him to want a child even now as when I sit on the counter and say Well, I have been thinking… |
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