—

What pilgrim shadows—

how stubbornly they tail you,

children better left at home.

The tawny stalker slinks, sour

puss following that silver marauder—

always after your heart, girl.

You are dragging

yourselves toward paradise:

one brick, one brick.

By now your feet are swollen,

the size of pomegranates,

pulsing fuchsia inside

hand-me-down pumps.

They’ll callous your feet in no time.

How cheap you look. And how long

can you carry this limp

man, throat full of straw, all impotence

and good intentions. If I could 

find my heart in here, you say

to the world, searching

your basket, I could make it love you.

But all you find inside

is the little ashen dog

drooling on the sandwiches.