There will be dreams dissolving into walls
and eyes on the moon-clock tonight.
The caregiver is at it again—
mopping the floor with my heart
and waxing the air burnt toast.
I open the bedroom door and listen,
even in sleep my lover saps my breath.
Iím a dry pen trying to rewrite a story,
cover my lover and make a treaty out of a sheet.
Sympathetic ear. A pinwheel sucker,
Iím a walking stick when he hollers
Bloody Mary. I crush ice,
see his glassy eyes, the same
melting eyes of my dadís that night
of a scythe moon when he left
and never mowed our yard again.
Tonight, itís the same vodka and search for truce.
When will this story end?
Denise Utt is a poet who lives in New York City. Her poetry has appeared in The Bellevue Literary Review, The Bryant Literary Review, The Paterson Literary Review, the Forgotten Women Anthology, The Practice of Poetry: Writing Beyond the Basics, as well as in other journals.