(Quit your job before karma
notices. Everybody knows that seventh-
grade teachers stay single,
especially the ones with pecan-
colored hair, the ones who,
if they can't have a husband, would
rather take a hole in the head).
Rinse your zinfandel collection for recycling--
pieces of cork still jingle in their bottoms
like the useless seeds inside gourd-husks.
At bars, before the boyfriend, you used
to pretend you were Italian. First you'd test
the air with your tongue, then you'd sprinkle
the air, parmesan-style, with Hi, I'm:
Gina, Antonia, or Marie.
Mince each faery beneath your aqua
marabous. Pack away all your childish
things, seal each box like an envelope--
spit will make sure Barbie's shrieks
won't escape, will bud shut
her rose-mouth before she can warn
you to watch your figure.
Cast marriage spells like fish-hooks,
like you expect a return. On the eve
of the Worm Moon, sneak out and snip
the forelock of a tall bay stallion. Make sure
he bucks the night, along with your fingers,
from his back. At home, braid that hank,
imagining it is the hair of your unborn
twin daughters--Yes mommy, we'll sit still.
Map out the menu of your honeymoon
in Rome. Plan that crazy-checkered table
where you'll watch your man eat, the ravioli
sliding around in his mouth like broken pig-
hearts. And when you tell him I'm not
wearing underwear, he'll turn his mouth in
to you like tomorrow's homework.