the farmer's wife's journal

the farmer’s wife’s journal

You cup my face with spindled hands to kiss

my cheek, leaving red waxy love I wipe

away. Your lacy robe ascends the steps

with regal strides, a train of cream perfume

billowing behind until you slip

inside your door to climb your king-sized throne

and settle in sleep. A child, I creep up stairs

that creak just like your knees. The bathroom door

is old, like everything else, and squeals to scare

the cat. Blue chipping floor is tile-cold,

but I have learned to dodge the slivers

that cut a novice foot, a dance of sorts.

A wisp of loose-robed white, I slide myself

into the middle, right between the mirrors

hung parallel above the facing shelves

of perfume vials and toothpaste tubes, and watch

my thin reflection bouncing back and forth

in endless, smudgy images. The catch

is that you cannot look yourself in the eye

because you’ll block the view, but if

you stand just right and twist, you’ll tunnel by

on either side until you disappear

in infinite stacking dolls. Back then the trick

was young and fresh, exciting, just like you were.

That woman’s husk, today you rest on top

the sheets, a barn-dried sheaf of Autumn corn.

I do not know how much you hear, and stop

to dab your spittled mouth. The walls are bare,

empty of mirrors, but flesh reflects enough—
they say I have your hair.