Late by Sharon Olds

Late

 

The mist is blowing across the yard

like smoke from a battle.

I am so tired of the women doing dishes

and how smart the men are, and how I want to

bite their mouths and feel their hard cocks against me.

The mist moves, over the bushes

bright with poison ivy and black

berries like stones. I am tired of the children,

I am tired of the laundry, I want to be great.

The fog pours across the underbrush in silence.

We are sealed in. The only way out is through

fire, and I do not want a single

hair of a single head singed.