Housewife

Moldy sinews grabbing your limbs
Infecting your wounds with violence
And still. Human, say, made of sorrows

Descents, joy, practicality...
Nice forgiving simplicity
To go with your black coffee?
Is that fine, dear?

She still sways outside like a barren tree
No plumage or vegetation to give thee
Coverage.
Nor shade

Shaking in the rain
A blazing fire escapes
Today only to retain this aging
War again.
Forlorn in pain
And born in chains.