When the Good Front Stops Working

Throw the leeks away, along with the spinach
and carrots. Let go all the reminders, plans
put on hold. Wallow, wallow, wallow.

The refrain carries no sound, not even
the dog lying on the floor next to you
has an idea. As long as you throw

the multicolored ball with the squeaky
thing inside, she settles down, a few
tosses and she seems content. Why

all the trouble when things can be as
easy as not pouring another glass,
not thinking about your mother's

fears--you don't own them--not calling
to memory the slow way your father moved
that last Christmas when you never mentioned

his swollen ankles, your fear of sounding intrusive
greater than the fear of losing him. No marinade
has covered the tender breasts you planned

to cook, and no hands are willing to search
the drawer for a knife to cut away tendons
or the small deposits of fat. Pour another

one until you cease to think, your body
prone on the 300 count sheets, sleeping
soundly until your life wakes you up,

such an annoying and persistent visitor,
coming to claim you and shake some sense
into your already failing and rapidly beating heart.