‘50s HOUSEWIVES

alone in their attics

they catch moths in their hands

every season abandons them

their dreams are never good enough to write down

 

they’re always touching dishes

wondering if anyone still thinks of them

 

they remember their childhood like an island
 

that sank into the ocean

 

they get rid of crumbs
 

retrieve and sort the mail

 

no matter how good their husbands treat them
 

life puts them to sleep
 

they feel like dying hens

 

they must make art
 

but they’ve never made art before