Is home really the warmest place
for a good girl to be?
Where her heart is shared
between her body and the walls
and the ceiling and the floors
and the dirt and the broom
Is it really her own then?
When it is buried beneath the ground
so the house may have something
to stand up on
But how can it be a foundation
when it will eventually fall,
when it was meant to be held, not to hold up?
Her heart is a sponge
used to scrub the dishes
when everyone else is asleep at night
It is the plate she hands
to a guest when they come over,
to be used and thrown away when done
But an obedient daughter
never says anything
She simply picks up the dirty teacups
and carries them away,
balanced precariously on her elbows
because her hands are filled with requests
She holds ice between her teeth
a substitute for sugar cubes
that are too sweet
for a girl whose compliance
has made her cold.