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Reading Sappho in a Wine Bar


Today I promised you a poem entitled
"Mowing the Lawn Out of Spite"
in honor of your husband who would
do any job poorly if it might twist

your heart open to him. The wine glasses
are lined up so perfectly. Hard to believe
they might ever be broken, but each one will.
Think of the delicate, the fragile, the weak:

a beetle's wing, a swing's slow arc, your very
smallest child. You watched your husband drag
the lawn mower across the backyard, saw
his lips curse it through the window each time

it stalled. If you listened closely you could
hear his voice, the sound of glass cracking
beneath your feet. Or perhaps he was cursing
you, your joy on this first day of spring.


Keetje Kuipers

Beautiful in the Mouth
BOA Editions


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