poem: shire’s end

rather laboriously, my father was forced into. a marriage
and the lavender sucked head, in dreary smokestack columns, all under
his window. the sun was low
and always hot; the gardens sank and gasped,
as if as if — I was metallic lady Diana sat in permanent
mourning or waiting or hoping. as a woman, I was always
doing all three, at once. the lavender came wet onto
my small bare feet, and the bees danced
in the cusps of my skin, and I was struck. the ennui of every
rich sad person, the evening violin; the champagne was very good that
summer and I drank a lot, waiting
at the window for my lover; and if the wind took up. shrieking.
the summer would drive out before it, like cattle going
into western Australia smoke, the sounds of my father fucking
his new wife, and the gate perhaps — perhaps —
creaking inward for me, but how could I explain? the bees and the
heat and the strawberries had already
taken me — I might leave this place, or I fall dead
off the sill, the men have already thrown themselves to progress;
the turn goes fast and fast inside me, the great houses already boarded
up/killed, what is it to me; to wait?

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