We’re a couple of whores
Mortgage free
But you still sleep.
It’s killing me.

I don’t remember agreeing
But, I too, play the game
Pulling and jumping
Bruising without pain.

I see his mail
Arriving at my home
I hate him
Alone, in this poem

I’m done
I want to leave
Tell him off
Run away, like thieves

We do not
We stay
Two whores
And pay.

Amy Samuel: "Domestic Bliss"
Spring 2006 Mothers Who Write Reading

Upon the seat of the recliner
lies the cushion of domesticity
covered in feathers and down
and God Damn static electricity

Errant waves of sound
bounce from wall to wall
the glides and clicks of a marital gift clock tick
loud and too tightly wound.

The boards beneath spend and retract
cracking strong.
Relying on constant motion
left to rock alone.