When June calls in yellow dresses and unheard messages collecting on the machine,
I answer.
And when the afternoon sun gets to be too much I hang the phone back on the receiver and sign my name on the checks tacked to the refrigerator,
Threatening to follow the dotted yellow lines until they end somewhere calmer-
Somewhere with a big yard and a tree that kisses kitchen windows for June to hide from the sun under.
A longing for domesticity draws the nights out slow and sweet like honey,
A need for a home and a place to rest my head and wake with it not clouded.
Not sure why the hands that washed me fail to be gentle towards me now,
Not sure why the kitchen sink basin won’t carry away the sins that callous.
When I wake dreaming of motherhood next,
It will be June again
Who hangs my youth out on clothespins to dry
In the soft dance of the early morning sun through the leaves.
I will meet her when I know the answers to questions that weigh down my mind and make my hands feel heavy to hold,
When the painted mirrors feel familiar to us again.