Prayer of Regrets

I. Of the Aging Housewife

Dear God

I am bounded by the walls of this house

the squareness of the yard, perpetual greenness of the lawn

by the 9:05am arrival of the school bus and its 4:25pm return

between the hours when solitude begins and ends

when the mind can finally settle into itself

then

the task list, chores, phone calls and check boxes

laundry and groceries, mopping of floors

veterinary appointments, in and out of the car

life chopped into pieces by the clock

hours sliced in thirty minute chunks like knobs of carrots

beneath my kitchen blade

laid out before me, these hours, these years

the decision made

a covenant that must not be broken:

that is—love, comfort, stability

in exchange for freedom

inevitable fate of the good girl

the one who got straight A’s in school

who beamed in the teacher’s praise

who did what she was told, followed the rules

who always wanted to please

now, here I am:

a possessed object in suburbia

wearing out my precious days

among the blare of lawnmowers

kitchen sink scum, pots and pans

neighbors walking dogs and digging bulbs

mail trucks hovering at driveways

watching songbirds flit to and from their mailbox nest—

creatures with more exotic lives than me

shackled by love

my body owned by others

my own form does not belong to me

it cannot fly where it desires

each night, it returns to the same side of the bed

its mouth consumes only white bread

lips must come back to their proper perch

fingers caress only approved skin

like a falcon, I circle back

to the outstretched, gloved hand

the path already chosen

impossible to return to that fork in the road

a choice made in haste

too late now

lives enmeshed like threads woven in a fabric

like the children’s worn pants I sew

forever repairing the holes in the knees

or the sofa’s woven blanket with its errant strands:

pulling out one thread would unravel the whole thing

would tear it, ruin it, destroy the entire tapestry

My God

why can’t I be grateful?

my beloveds, my clan, my pack

whose love is tied up, always, with need

they need my constant presence, the comfort of familiar words

the smell of onions and garlic in the pan

the making of beds, the predicable nagging

my life is no longer my own

now, it is interwoven with my loved ones

their happiness dependent on my presence, my state of mind

they are both my victims and my prison guards

I am no longer a single entity—

a multiplicity, a public being

crocheted into the fabric of this family

I know I will end my days

in this reluctant fidelity

can see my obituary now:

a devoted wife and loving mother

a life of allegiance, of self-sacrifice

forever a caretaker:

of babies, children, parents, husband,

grandchildren, neighbors, pets

later, my decades spent in care

of my husband’s progressive decrepitude

by the time I am finally free

will I be weak and hollowed out

not knowing what to do with myself

shuffling alone in the house’s dusty twilight?

Lord

I didn’t always feel this way

before, in youth

there was joy in the sacrifice

I welcomed it

now—why do I brim with regrets?

The beauty, femme fatale, hussy, whore, slut, nympho

call her what you will

Aphrodite, buried in my center,

will she never be let out of her cage

from her clam shell prison with its slick pink walls

enchained in my inner dungeon

under piles of laundry

or behind dusty cans of peas in the pantry

or underneath the cobwebbed, dank stairs of the basement

where we keep the boxes of ornaments

and folded plastic Christmas tree

She was once stunning, bold and mini-skirted

long-legged and sleek-haired

slim waisted, stilettoed and lip-sticked

with black eye shadow and a hungry mouth

starving for ecstasy

for tongues and the flavor of sweat

yearning for the sound of the belt

unbuckling

II. Of the Aging Whore

Dear God

I never want to see another penis

in my life

don’t know how it happened, exactly

just fell into this life

not a choice, just circumstance

at first, in the early days:

hedonistic joy

skin, and more skin

the lustful gaze of the man, the longing stare

broad, pink chests revealed

through the unbuttoning of collared shirts

sometimes muscular or beer-bellied

I didn’t usually mind the hair

the moist scent of crotch

I loved the bodies of men, most anyway

what I craved was their need, their vigorous desire

this flattery was addictive

this adoration they had for me

coming to worship at my white-sheeted altar

might have been some kind of pride

their lining up to pay me for my beauty

for my slim waist, round ass, muscular legs

fresh face and taut breasts

the driven need of it all

fire and fever

hunger for flesh, like some kind of savages

they consumed my body

I offered it up to them willingly

a lamb in garter belts

or possibly laziness, when I realized

I could make an easy thousand

by spreading my legs on the satin bedspread

enduring a bit of pounding and spit

all you have to do is open your mouth

rather than those eternity of midnights waitressing

stench of oil in the air fryer

the dead-end factory jobs

at gas stations or days behind the shop counter

wearing those awful uniforms, smiling on cue

a cog in a machine, to make someone else a profit

spending my hours to make nothing, to barely get by

at least this life was filled with pleasure, with touch

with the loving of men

And Lord

I was good at it

how I’ve pleased them, given them what they needed

it's fucking community service, my little occupation

more than the pleasure of my own skin

being fondled, touched, groped and grabbed

I lusted after their sounds:

the heaving breath, escalation of panting

intensity of eyes glistening

groans that crescendoed into yells, screams

ending in liquid euphoria

and yet

maybe it was after the four hundredth fuck or so

when our bodies started to become

reduced to pieces and parts:

this piece goes there, that sticks in there

to which I could set a timer, like boiling eggs

the machine like-nature of the human, predictable

over time, the act became tired, robotic

I could still fake an orgasm, get the cash

but now, as my body ages, damn it

thickening belly fat and cellulite on thighs

thinning hair and sagging breasts

a drooping, worn look on the face

a freshness lost

my clientele become more repulsive

it's just a shit job, like any other

I’m a product, quickly consumed and disposed

they no longer linger after the act

scurry home to their wives

the good china kept in cabinets

I’m just the disposable cup

from the fast food drive thru

left alone, wads of cash on the dresser

used condoms in my trash can

some nights I don’t work, just lay here

drinking, smoking too much

television turned off

with my candles and incense

too lazy to wash the sheets

for the millionth time

pondering the children I didn’t have

little boys who would have crawled

over my limbs like a jungle gym

whose hands I might have cradled

as we crossed the street

or the phantom girls

with their hair ribbons and jump ropes

alone more and more—

what will come of me?

I can’t do this for much longer

I’m at the end of beauty

those other women, at least

after it all fades, they will have love

and the house that love built

I will have nothing: memories of encounters,

of limp, dripping condoms

and closing doors

Lately I have taken to visiting public libraries

during preschool story hour

peeking at the little feet in sneakers

thumbs being sucked, noses picked

pouting faces and wide eyes

to watch the mothers cradle infants

in the crooks of their elbows

nursing in back corners, under their cotton blankets

sometimes they lean over to kiss the miniature, bald heads

Between my hours screwing and sheet washing

I drive around suburban neighborhoods

in the late afternoon

and find myself pining after mothers

on their benches at 4:25

waiting to pick up their kids

from the bus stop