print previewback LISA WELLS
Chore Wheel
Consulting the pie of pastels I discover
it’s Monday. The garbage bin is tipped on two wheels
and driven down the walk by the grave
valet—me, in my pajamas, pale blue silk
stuffed into my boots and zipped into the down
parka, an ambulatory cloud.
I don’t care what the neighbors think.
I will meditate long on these pubic weeds
tangled on a mound of hollowing snow.
In the bedroom, the stain of last night’s jag
evaporates from the pillowcase.
I am visited nightly
by a writhing. Courtesan
of the double malt,
a blear year.
Year of the drought and the vortex.
Year of my birthday (predictably)
of the blighted ovum, I’ve been
dispossessed for some time now
in the street, an icy wind
bats at my drawstrings,
and my hands, I notice,
are cupped, calving the light. 
Cain Flees
Chore Wheel
We must be coming down