Why I Am Not A Painter

Buying a house, he said, was like
killing a cat: something that happens
when running from something else.
We were pregnant and desperate
for insurance: at least I was. My wall of

my husband's house was like my uterus:
being pressed upon by my husband
's presence. The real estate agent
gave me the eye when I was
picking at the wallpaper: feeling

like a character in a children's story,
a disgruntled narrator. I wanted a girl so
bad, I knew I would forgive a tomboy for
hating me as long as she wasn't
a lesbian. My husband was scrambling for

any excuse to screw his secretary; I felt
up the walls as though they would fuck me
the way he did: a sudden pain and then alone
I could feel normal, stare in the mirror
and separate the features of my face, wanting

more order to my insides. I didn't care
if the baby died; I would bury it in makeup
bags, safety deposit boxes. Inside. I’d make it
toys to play with, and play with them; I’d crawl
over my husband's lying body. I’d take a hat

to cover my head, imagine a funeral in my
free time, go to the beach. I bought a cat
and named her Susan, arranged flowers in the room
full of sun: waited for my husband to die. I
was afraid of falling asleep in my water

glass. I could feel my fingers becoming metaphors:
this one was my life, straight
until the last quarter, leading to a bitten-off nail.
This callus I'd peel. This my virginity:
a scar running across my knuckle. I scratched at
my stomach and my husband's happy house,

my daughter Susan, crying. Just another bitch
I couldn't control, slapping her when she cried
so she would cry some more. I never felt closer
to another human being. It hurt
to have her taken away: we could have had

trips to the Atlantic, drugs to make us happy, cigarettes
I could have bought before she turned eighteen. The bastard stole
the only piece of him I liked. I'd wanted a house with shutters,
walls painted with sponges so I could see textures
but there were none to feel, cause he'd stripped them.