by Ken Poyner

She wishes that whatever it might be that is
Lurking each night around outside the house –
Leaving footprints in the flowerbed, busted
Stalks in the garden, the sound of wind
Disrupted – would finally
Find its way in, would sit for a moment
In the worn comfortable chair, planting
Its feet like two sacks of sweet rice, and ask,
Without unkind surface tension, for a beer;
And when she rises in her careful,
Not to be changed-out-of today
Mock dress and nightgown, she wishes, from
Someplace like love in a cold shack,
That it would devour the width and breadth of her,
Being done even before the blood
That is necessarily left within her
Can lazily rain rightfully down.

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