domestic triumph

i am going to wake in this morning
inside of it, in the slip water over my face
the duckling pout of the children's faces
sourball eyes, a smear of recollection still
puckering their expression- in dreams,
they were close to the thing, they flew.
i will do what mothers do and i will be
found lacking: minus eggs. minus bacon.
the car will start and there will be one
moment when i will feel i cannot do this
the pain sits like a cat on my chest,
flicking its tail. licking its chops.
my marriage is straining, groaning,
coming apart in sparkplugs and silence-
i am being wounded internally. in the liver
that cannot filter debris of this size,
the gut with it's long ugly cry, that will not
let me eat, and the heart! of course, the heart.
my lover is all gone away. he throws his
demons at me like startled cats, they claw
my face and hands, i move quickly and think fast
but no one can escape the home they live in.
no one can escape the heart they live for.
all the poems in the world can't save me
now, i will think, but then the phrase
' you must change your life '
is spoken sternly into my ear,
and i am in tears as the children
argue about gum chewing and breathing,
because i know that i have found these
things, and no one can take them away.
i know that i have found these
things, and no one can take them away.

maggie may ethridge