You stand there at the sink with your apricot hair
and a fishbowl green apron.
A goddess with a brillo pad and sponge,
you demand that I pay homage by helping with the dishes.
You sit cross-legged on the splintery living room floor,
your cheeks flooded with my refusal.
Curses and histronics are assembled by your tongue
Saran wrapped with words like "codependant," "neurosis."
You stand in front of me, red suitcase in hand,
your eyes glaring saltily at me like pornographic keyholes,
behind which, armored Amazons murder naked soldiers.
Are you really that mad at me?
