Radical Domesticity
You don’t see clearly
through the kaleidoscopic
lens of your misspent
diamond ring. You,
who won’t consider a braided
flogger beside the slotted kitchen
spoon and fear the weight-
lessness of swinging husbands.
This is the smell. Blue-
fringed leather hanging
from a ceiling of lasting
marriage. This is the sex.
Curl of a whippet
dreaming under a rocking bed.
The apple pie is not served
without a knife.
A bulb replaced with red.
Shadows of men, no longer
pale. Step into radical
domesticity. There’s a bonded
hush in sighing, strength
in screws penetrating
rafters. I’ll hold you up,
keep you safe this side
of edge, swab beading
sweat from your ecstatic
breast, clean a cement floor
beneath your quivering frame.