Song For A Lady
By Anne Sexton
On the day of breasts and small hips
the window pocked with bad rain,
rain coming on like a minister,
we coupled, so sane and insane.
We lay like spoons while the sinister
rain dropped like flies on our lips
and our glad eyes and our small hips.
"The room is so cold with rain," you said
and you, feminine you, with your flower
said novenas to my ankles and elbows.
You are a national product and power.
Oh my swan, my drudge, my dear wooly rose,
even a notary would notarize our bed
as you knead me and I rise like bread.
After a month's postponement due to enrollment issues, Maddy finally started cosmetology school on Wednesday. It was a chaotic day for her because she was determined to go to one of the coffee shops being transformed to celebrate the Gilmore Girls revival, so she got a friend from work to drive her to Silver Spring at 6 a.m. to a "Luke's Diner" pop-up, got her Netflix swag, and came home in time to be driven to class.
Most of my day not spent driving her to and from school and the mall where she had to pick things up involved work and laundry that is not yet folded, though I took two walks to enjoy the spectacular temperatures. We watched the pilot of Westworld, which is appropriately violent and Ed Harris is scary as crap and therefore superb. We also watched the Mets blow it to the Giants. From Constellation Park in Seattle: