buried no shovel
There is a woman.
She is a mother. Housewife.
She has never paid taxes. She was handed cash and tense instructions,
flawless unscratched mirror to her rich white sisters of 1955.
Her own grandmother had more understanding of money than she does,
even though she, too, was handed cash, once a week, along with a kiss on her vodka scented cheek.
Thus began a conversation about parallel universes, the general meaning of the exchange
When the mother the housewife
reached a certain age, had one too many breakdowns,
demanded one too many payouts beyond the value
of whatever Goods she had on hand,
Truth rose finally from her somnolent bed.
Truth can be so lazy, so sleepy sometimes,
a little like a housewife who starts the Sancerre at 4 instead of 5
and takes a little extra yellow pill for the anxiety.
But when She wakes up she is so fucking hungry,
you would not believe the savagery of her hunger
unless you, also, have lived through years and years of sleeping
with your secret assassin, your captor,
and finally wake
the bed stripped and empty,
with the fine boned jaw of the Honest Goddess keening over you,
demanding all manner of change one cannot possibly enact
as quickly as She requires.
So the housewife moved around, traveled, took care of her children.
Her tax man, would you believe it, is becoming her shrink,
which saves her I cannot tell you how much money.
She will have to give up manicures.
And her Vision of one day being a human being.
Sometimes she wonders if the first might be more difficult.
Mostly these days she does math.
She fucking sucks at math. A gift she gave to her daughter.
The one who asked about money.
A family of philosophers
poets readers writers gypsies travelers
fashion-addicts political debaters ~~
Her math, this lithe woman with the foul mouth
keeps showing her
0 0 0 = 0 no matter what
Stay in this city,
the hated city
a pretend city
hot dry dusty bro-filled,
and she can afford
a tiny flat in a car-drenched suburb.
She hates cars.
And bros and dry air.
She is green like a peacock.
The city an encrusted brown concrete slab.
she can gather
and move to the East, which is closer to Paris anyway,
and buy a couple of wooded acres
near the water
near great schools
and the Great City.
For a song, as they say.
She loves the poetry of that phrase:
a whole new life
for a song.
Indeed her math is wretched (profligate, kind, but cannot add), however even she understands that all equations in this particular test
her own imprisonment.
She understands, as the Buddha has taught
as the strung diamonds
that she is responsible for
the construction of this confinement.
He is a Happy Jailor
but she gave him the job.
She has lost the keys, always always
she is muttering
“Where the fuck are my keys?”