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I will not cook for you. It is both
lack of interest an lack of talent because
my Southern mother gave me
strong white teeth
Yes sir no ma’am,
and grandma’s pearls, but not
the family lust for spatulas
and Mix well.
So no,
I will not cook (for lack of trying
I assure you.)
But for you, I will singe fingertips
on dishwasher hot plates and
rinse saucepans and
most likely call for takeout.
The dog will live unwalked if he
is left to my devices.
The tulips from that garden shop
by your parents’ house will never have
the cool, wet courage to kiss up towards sun.
And the sheets on our bed will stay unmade
and wild in knots.
So our dog will be a rolling caricature,
our garden a mass of whatever it has
dreamed itself to be, and our bed
will always keep on hand
the memories of our
bodies and how
we lay just
so.