Her hair cut in a bob.
She wore pumps.
And cleaned up—good.
Janis went down
to the basement laundry.
She married a salesman
who didn’t feel the way
she felt.
It didn’t matter
—much.
Janis hid behind
a baby belly.
She smoked
in secret
and screamed
at her cry-baby-kids
a running-on-the-lawn.
Janis lived in hiding.
She went to cocktail parties.
Her manicure looked natural.
Her perfume spiced the air.
She baked a clam dip.
She worried about her weight.
Channeling Janis.
No one sees
my drunken bounce
off the walls
of her psyche.
They don’t hear
her moan
into the needle
at the edge of identity.
I’m a mother, a housewife.
I’m Janis.
Laundry—dive
into the sheets of night.
Dust—cough into a tragic
cigarette.
Breakfast—drowse
in the shattered invisible—
detach and linger—in the rafters.
Did I make you feel?
