JILL WICKHAM
Meanwhile, In the Kitchen, June Cleaver Was Spotted
Hoisting a Refrigerator to Free Her Youngest Son
When he struck it, three tiny chicks scurried from under their dead mother’s wings.
—from a widely circulated e-mail
There are things a woman can not do.
Walk naked from house to house
asking for a cup of flour, a teaspoon
of sugar, begging like an orphaned cat.
A woman should not feed worms to her children,
walk naked from house to house,
hide in bushes watching other families dining.
These are the bare days, empty as blown eggs.
A woman should not feed worms to her children,
even while they tip their heads, mouths wide,
throats bared, narrow as knife blades.
These are the bare days, empty as blown eggs,
vintage honey-baked homespun, torn at the edges.
This is when the wolves enter in,
throats bared, narrow as knife blades
and women pray for their grandmothers.
There are things a woman can not do.
This is when the wolves enter in,
asking for a cup of flour, a teaspoon.
Jill Crammond Wickham is a poet, teacher and artist in Upstate New York. She supports her writing habit by running a children's art studio and gallery. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Ouroboros, Blueline, Thema, Literary Mama, and others. Her poem, "The Man in Uniform, or: Why Women Should Drink Milk" was anthologized in Starting Rumors: America's Next Generation of Writers. Visit her at www.jillypoet.blogspot.com (jillypoet@verizon.net)