by JoSelle Vanderhooft
Every hour on the hour is the same
as weeding gardens, as stepping in and out of doors,
as kissing.
His wooden lips against my own pair
worn a bit from age and repetition
chafe a little, right down to a splinter.
Still, he is genteel. His gears scarcely squeak
when he raises his Dutch cap and bows three times
deep as midnight breathing.
My knees by comparison grind like windmills,
ugly and improper as my bread-heavy hips,
my rough hands swollen red as apples.
We cannot choose our carving, or our fate
(some might even say our lovers).
Even so I must be thankful
he has never watched the ballerinas
spin before their tinfoil mirrors
and he would never think to raise his hand
except in that old world greeting.
He is everything a wife could want:
careful, considerate, predictable as gears.
We have trod our path so many times
everything seems paced,
even our love.
I would sigh, except my face is set
in that hard Northern smile
the worshipful clock masters of old so cherished.
And I tell myself I must be glad to match.
Alone of all clutter-things, the antique dolls, the rhinestone cats
even the frail dancers spinning on their engines.
I am not lonely, and my life is good.
Still, there are times I think that I should leave him,
pack my wooden apron with a lunch of flies' wings and hearth dust,
pluck my favorite tulip from the fence,
unbolt my feet and slide down the creaking pendulum
into room-darkness,
into the full world where, they whisper,
rugged men on ragged seas whet their smiles
like their swords and appetites
for fat women such as I.