Married at eighteen, again
at twenty-one, I wore flowers and drifted
into parades. Once, to be with a man I moved
to Illinois, lived in his house
in the woods, and drove his jeep on dirt roads
until he realized I didn’t do
laundry well, and he sent me
away. I emptied
our savings, and took off
through the night for Florida. Then a preacher
who knew my mother’s God,
married me at twenty-five,
and quoted the Bible every night through dinner.
Waiting became my art. Then suitcases fell
from the closet. Land sprouted
behind doors. Clocks
came out of hiding.
Now the men I left think I ache
without them. Let me demand
a vase as a sequel to myself.
Let me eat the doors of my dollhouse.
Let me sleep in a bell.
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