From Portraits Of Mary

ix.

Mary says she’s tired of being responsible, wants
to skip through the desert in cowboy boots, topless,
stringing a kite in the big sky. I crave a rainy day,

grease and sugar, a little numbness before the heaving
resumes. Mary wants an angel to run her errands,
finish her billing. I want a second coming between lunch

and dinner. Oh, how we want. Mary at the new mall.
She loves God and shoes, Buddha and chocolate,
meditation and a red-tag sale. Mary driving, cell phone

jangling, gas tank on empty. She listens to reggae
as darkness swarms, stops in a busy intersection
to examine a dead hawk, carts it home in a dream catcher.

I’m the hero: doing her laundry, four loads and counting.