She slips a pat of butter on the saucer
so that he can see her forbear
its smooth taste and melting line-
I do not like her.
She is prettier than my mother: most
basic crime.
And the low
daring neckline of her dress
where men drown and I
-last resort-draw the wound. . .
Now her face twists. . .
Women love the sea, all
women love her:
women, we own, we are the hours,
we will be the selves the myths have made.
We stumble
to the brink together.
We kneel there, mother and I, holding closed
her little hurt between us, until all three
our red dresses flare out
a perfect white.