THE HUSBAND SPEAKS OF MENOPAUSE
She kisses my shaving cream ears,
and half an hour later
throws a loaf of bread across the room.
She hates to cook and clean,
and wants to do nothing but grow flowers,
tuck in seeds, water, weed,
sprinkle petals in our food.
On summer nights she crouches behind the tiger lilies,
eyes wild, clawing the dirt
until a fountain of nasturtiums sprouts,
When I try to cast my old loving spell on her,
she cackles, hops on her purple bergamot broom,
and soars into a white rose moon,
a dark, distant figure,
moving at an immense speed.
THE WIFE SPEAKS OF MENOPAUSE
I want him to drive slower.
I want him to keep our fire insurance up to date.
I want the butter out, the ketchup in,
the front door locked at night.
My wants lumber through our house, become mere wishes,
then die and fly to heaven unfulfilled,
until one morning I rise from sleep, screaming,
my sharp breasts pointed at his black unlistening heart.
He forgot buy milk.
That’s it, our marriage is over –
the man didn’t remember the milk!
His face turns curd white.
With shaking paws, like Pooh Bear,
he offers me his last pot of honey.
He has saved me from extinction.
He’s afraid of me.
Someone has to be.