after Anne Sexton
Don’t tell the witch, but we’re alright.
The cat, he chases milk bottle tops;
the sly, fat mice thrive out of sight.
Gangly grass and dandelion clocks
waggle and giggle, front and rear.
Don’t tell the witch – we’re flourishing here
in our big cracked house, red onion skins
autumn-crackle under stockinged feet.
Teabags plop like rotten teeth from the bin’s
laughing mouth. By husband’s seat –
heels of brown bread toasted black,
stanzas scribbled on the phone bill’s back,
apple skewered on a kitchen knife.
No spell stronger than this loved life.