Now the mulch has come between us seven turns,
I’ve grown dramatic, prone to existential snits.
I wax funereal at lunch.
I wear a little stain beneath my robe.
The woman with the ostrich-leather harness,
I am she. The coat-check tender chasing down the train.
My mother says the feralness in me is unbecoming.
She still puts everything in jars:
wild honey, fruit preserves, the slurry of the heart.
Come hear me talk!
Advance in age beside me and this pine!
Is yours, like mine, the edgeless kind of soft?
