Lemonade and Cyanide

Sylvia and I

 

In the kitchen I drink

lemonade,

cyanide,

white zinfandel.

 

I love the way we share secrets,

the way we are secrets.

 

The children are at school

and I don’t know why.

You can’t be taught to be radiant,

to sew your smile on each dawn,

to pour yourself like perfume from a pitcher

all over the house when you are empty.

 

Let’s stir our drinks.

The ice is so officious,

teaching us how to die with grace.

 

There are no cookies to bake in the waiting oven.

We just can’t be that sort of women.

 

My ice clanks,

melts.

The room is paler.

We burn deeper

if not brighter.

Lady Lazarus

Lady Lazarus is inconsiderate,

is me,

is leaking.

 

I’m the jacket I wear when I’m cold,

my body the lampshade

through which my power dims.

 

Heart half eaten,

a delicacy like mitten snow.

 

Why are there no bridges through the white?

 

bridges of scarves

of maniacs

of salacious science?

 

It is science that brings me a piece of me

in a syringe, in a capsule.

 

Oh, thank you, Science!

 

Sunken souls mourn anchors

that brawl beneath the brink.