The Flowered Couch
I sit
on a dead woman's couch
beyond recalling
what I made for dinner.
The thumping hum
of homework not done
makes me thinner
but not as thin
as I imagine.
Something's burning
somewhere close
I can't tell for turning
my head,
it slopes
into sleep and rags.
I need to make her husband happy
I need a magic word
a favorite food
a clue.
I protect the children
from his misspent anger,
fear the currency
of this new household.
Unsatisfied
are we all.
A bleak word for a
blacklight situation,
all the wrong things
lit
in ghostly pallor
in this parlor
under the silent noose
of memory.
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