CINDERELLA AND HER COACH HANDBAG

CINDERELLA AND HER COACH HANDBAG

 susan ambrosino

It's odd coming home again suspecting

you never left your desk, your sofa, or

your own private pulse, flying the same plane

to the same sunny spot that doesn't require a passport.

Sauvignon Blanc is as far as you got, maybe

a little Cabernet, or both, mixed with some

mildly wild talk, some senseless laughter

then a bit of fast driving, taking the turns sharp,

arriving home at a time only you think is late,

like eight, when others are leaving to go out.

You like remaining awake in the night.

You have your own private crazy,

perhaps everyone does, you wouldn’t know.

The silence at night is a hushing in the depths of the inner ear.

It’s a habit forming sensation, no one

to raise eyebrows at you, no one

to quietly turn away, no one

need answer.

It is easy to find peace in the avoidance of people,

but to find it in chaos, that is hard.

Humans are what they are,

some are rain, some are earthquakes.

You try so hard to be a tree lined path leading to a cabin in the woods.

But you need to have flaws, or you’d be a technician.

Why would you want to be perfect ?

So you keep the make-up bag, the high-heeled shoes, the trendy clothes.

You keep Cinderella and her Coach handbag,

you still are good.

You sleep eight hours every night, you still are virtuous.

Must you question everything ?

You took one volume of the encyclopedia

Britannica to read in bed each night for many years.

Now you seek no-mind.

Put this on your calendar:

do not look at the person ahead of you,

do not look at the person behind you,

look up at the sky,

look down at your feet.

Put this on your calendar:

Be snow, be lightening

be wind, mud, avalanche, tsunami.

At least you have a partner to dance with

who can lift you off your feet,

swing you upside down,

blood pulsing, pen scratching,

while you imagine what you write has some meaning,

could ever matter to anyone

but yourself.

Is it ego ? indulgence ? a touch of  madness ?

Are you still fifteen ?

Still an orphan child hoping to be found ?

Cinderella waiting for your husband to come home

with his paycheck

which he gives to you without blinking

without thinking

until the leaves fall still from no breeze

the curtains drop down with no breath

the sun settles into dusk, into night,

into earth ?