To a crevice beyond her breasts, her ivory, her veins
She has spent years cramped by walls and blinds
Subdued by a domestic dwarfing
A draught, a drought, a lucid lucite vase
A draught, a drought, a lucid lucite vase
Flowers that submit to his patronizing grasp
Their heads limply cower; their petals rarely close
As my eyes ascend naturally they spot a pale, kidnapped square
An entire row of them, a despondent border––so pale
On an oppressive mantle, encapsulating flames,
Sits a stack of dog-eared wallpaper––overturned squares
Written on each page I find but one sentence:
"This woman is not a homemaker;
This home is not a womanmaker"
