It is unseemly to wash your hair in snowmelt. Impolite to discuss
your lover with your husband, but since you asked
in sixty four years we will dissolve. All of us. There will be stories
about onions growing claws in crisper drawers; no one will remember
what they meant. If I had tender white shoots, little ghost fingers
to work into every surface, I could be anywhere. I keep telling you
shit wants to grow. And it’s not true that we have all this time.
His fingers sewn into my ribs; legs and couch cushions.
This is what happens when there are no children to think about.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 18, Issue 1.
Amanda Lou Doster was a finalist in the 2011 Hedgerow Books competition and the winner of the 2009 Poet’s Seat Poetry Contest. She holds an MFA from the University of New Hampshire and lives with her husband and son on an acre of wetlands in Greenfield, MA.
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