sometimes i’m filled with so much rage
i don’t want to read
but burn this whole damn page
and hurl the heavy ashes at his ugly face
and turn to putrid garbage to avoid his embrace
it would take so little
to stuff a pillow to that face
it would take a bit of strength
to sink a knife into that rib cage
maybe slip in some poison
into that drink he likes so much
but all i do
is slam this damn door shut.
the hapless housewife often feels
such burning anger
seeing a fat husband and spoilt children
arguing about dinner.
how nice it would be to upturn
this tureen of hot broth
it would have to be him.
the baby’s wearing a new frock.
oh my the poet
how scandalous her thoughts
better she be boycotted
she’s insane or has been bought
by the devil
she’s made love to him, you know
for writing this way is inhuman and has only one cure.
death to the writer
death to the muse
death to the pen
death there’s no excuse.
now let’s go back to our pots and pans
and talk of our televisions and our shopping plans
while our husbands are indifferent
and our children, undisciplined
we’ll cook and clean
and plot and preen
and put away our hearts
and not vent our spleens.
thank god the poet’s dead
we can breathe easy today
wait. what’s that.
someone’s walking on our grave.