Domesticity
Oh, what a weak sticker, you groan, as the batter pops
out to the infield. We’re propped
up in two beds—mine’s electric, with crib
sides, rented to ease eleven broken ribs —
watching the Red Sox, who are in the cellar
and dozing between Demerol and errors.
out to the infield. We’re propped
up in two beds—mine’s electric, with crib
sides, rented to ease eleven broken ribs —
watching the Red Sox, who are in the cellar
and dozing between Demerol and errors.
You yawn, the resident optimist
no family should lack, always stitching
a selvedge along the silver lining
—the luck of my unbroken pelvis—
so that when in a bizarre twist
they tie it up in the bottom of the ninth
you crow, they’re still alive and kicking!
We rouse as for the crisis of an old friend
and watch through extra innings to the end.
no family should lack, always stitching
a selvedge along the silver lining
—the luck of my unbroken pelvis—
so that when in a bizarre twist
they tie it up in the bottom of the ninth
you crow, they’re still alive and kicking!
We rouse as for the crisis of an old friend
and watch through extra innings to the end.
“Domesticity” by Maxine Kumin from The Long Marriage. © WW Norton, 1996.
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