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This is not happening.
The sandwich half-made,
the milk half-poured,
the conversation half-heard,
truth half-told,
sky half-seen.
Dim light allows
a contracted mind
to believe:
This is not happening.
I am a careful cook
temporarily
feeding the children
on peanut butter sandwiches.
I am a good listener
but the inner chatter
is loud today.
I am a truthful woman,
kindly placating my husband.
I am a lover of nature,
when I have the time.
I am a considerate woman,
temporarily distracted.
A slender woman,
temporarily fat.
(I am hoping this poem
will end with satisfaction,
a nice round resolution
that makes it all better.)
I am a good-hearted woman,
temporarily angry.
A strong woman,
temporarily tired.
A loving woman,
temporarily alienated.
(If only I knew
the unwritten last line
then this poem
wouldn’t be happening.)
I am a sexy woman,
temporarily subdued.
A competent woman,
temporarily overwhelmed.
I have Hope for breakfast,
Denial for lunch,
Failure for dinner.
Resolution, I wanted.
As in “final,”
or as in “New Year’s?”
Imagine ending a poem:
“Tomorrow I’ll do better.”
We know the final resolution.
Will my dying words remain:
“This is not happening”?