Silencing the Ferocious Bitch

My fangs and fears came out tonight

angered by being so weary

and angry at being angry at being weary

over what was supposed to be a blessing

that I had started obsessing over.

God knew I was in a snit;

so he passed the note under my door,

grabbing his hat on his way out tonight;

such a gentleman, he

didn’t leave a rose because I’d

had too many thorns buried in my flesh

during this forty–fifty?–hour week.

He wrote, with a black Bic pen (so subtle, funny, Lord),

Come now, didn’t you ask for that miracle?

Didn’t you ask for that job?

Why would you

reach higher for what wasn’t given, and

overstep

that blessing, which you asked me for?

Just be, and be, and be.

Until I —I—give you more.

 

I, petulant, crumpled the note

and threw it on the floor.

I bathed in lavender balm,

then went to bed . . .

waiting–

for the “more.”

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