Feminine Guilty

Poetry / Spring 2018

Two pale egg shells floating

in the bath.

“I am going to steal you now,"

says Macbeth, in the corner.

"I am going to mistrust you

and take each word to the throne.”

How am I supposed to be

the Lady Macbeth

and not press my ear to the wood

where vacant children moan?

Not lace the bathwater with vinegar

and watch my first layer of skin dissolve?

Not stitch the word “regicide”

into the hem of my swelling skirt?  

This man asks me prodding questions

and excuses himself with chemicals.

He says, “I’m just like Hamlet except I know

that I am insane."

A King Lear to this absent

woman.

Press “repeat” to listen

to the voicemail again.

I left knitting needles in my purse

to cross-dress in the theater.

Can you guess the baby’s gender?

What about Portia’s?

Nerissa knocks, too, like

wedding rings thrown against wood boards.

How do I drown out

all of this noise?

How am I supposed to juggle these

eggs

in two baskets? How am I

supposed to bathe

without rubbing the blood from

my hands?