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and she is due her due
after washing the bile from her baby’s mouth
after bandaging the burns and
burnishing the bruises
she is due her due
the toilet paper streams the wrong way
but she doesn’t know the right way
and so she pulls it all off the spin, a swift scarf-magician
more and more flowing
as she issues it across the trampy yard
to create a tide break
an ocean of pallid pearl tissue
and she is due her due
the toothpaste is squeezed from the middle
and the cap is removed once more
and she runs down the street streaking
stripping down to nothing
can’t you see her in all her plainness
she is due her due
but it does not come in the weeping ginger daylight
it does not come in the arctic bitter midnight
she wakes at four a.m. to conceive
boiled eggs again and again, twelve minutes then, yes
she is not only the vinegary mother
not only the sheer wife, and
no one notices her clamping her hands
in a fixed fist prayer, cupping and crushing
the finger bones
no one notices her due
no one sees her wetness, her wishes
she is praying and praying for the voices to
stop, and the voices to come
and take her to her due
and she is planning her escape by train
by aristocratic gentleman, or a slick jump from the car
door, there would be the sweet smell of butter
milk weed, and the tire’s cry on the tar street
and the blue and red blur in her eyes
and then, there would be her due
and then, there would be her due
LisaAnn LoBasso
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