Domesticity by Lorcán Black

“But I still have to face the hours, don’t I?
I mean, the hours after the party, and the hours
after that…”

–Michael Cunningham, The Hours

Hours in which the lace falls away
to reveal an ordinary woman.
A groom un–noosing his length of grey silk.

Soon there will be a kitchen.
A bedroom. Plain. White.
Awaiting a child’s cry.

Wet grass. White sky.
Small lungs at 3 AM demolishing a wall.
Milk bottles. Shush, shush.

Outside: rain spattering glass.
Wet driveway. Child
and spoon beating a bowl.

You’ll think: patience, patience.
You’ll think: shower time.
You’ll think: cigarette.

There is milk.
There is moon.
There is rocking.

Each morning the light melts under the door.
The child’s cry rattles and gasps.

The instructions always read:
“Repeat as needed.”

You have no instruction.

Lorcán Black is an Irish poet, living in London. His work has been published or is forthcoming in The Saint Ann’s Review, Souvenir Lit, The Stinging Fly, Fjords Review, Chiron Review, Assaracus & numerous others. His first collection, Rituals, is forthcoming from April Gloaming Publishing later in 2018.