Anthropopathy
1.
In the kitchen, the school of plates
is, at last, gathered in the shoals of the cabinets.
The oven breathes hot on her neck,
she feeds it a songless bird.
The teapot shrieks, a peacock,
her hands lift the angry thing—
headless and spouting into the cup,
an open mouth hunger cannot feed.
The television flings shit all over
vacuumed carpets and clean scrubbed walls,
she throttles it with a switch
stands in silence,
barefoot on the carpet’s hairy back.
2.
The babies’ metal keys
have stopped spinning,
does she know?
My eyes lick her neck,
I breathe her milk-dreams like a cat,
her hair a nest of nightmares.
In the dark, the bed sighs and moans,
the pillows slip from their cases
like the heads of hostages
and while she sleeps
the moon and I
stare at each other.
Jacob Rakovan is an appalachian writer in exile, a father of five and a resident of Rochester, NY. He has poems appearing or forthcoming in Other, The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature,Spindle, Arsenic Lobster, ghoti, Bijou, Anemone Sidecar, and others.