I have known your madness
since before living my life.
I have known your slammed doors,
clanging of silverware in drawers.
I have known your terrible terrors, hiding
as you tore up stacks of newspaper;
consoling you as you wept, matching socks;
prying with my childish fingers—
the jangling car keys, as you declared,
“I’m going to drive into the lake”—
just as your great aunt had also threatened.
I often wondered—
as I wiped both our faces, pale—
are all women like this woman,
filled by such madness?
Yes, I have known your madness.
I have known you are no damn
good, woman. I have known you
will only ruin me and give to me
your own neurosis; A cancer
that does not die— like love does,
after enough time. But still I go
searching for one of you, whom,
with some obscene sense of
virtue, will make this all better.
And I wait for you, woman,
as I hide
beneath another blue typewriter