I'm Not Going to Say Her Name

On a good day, she gardens.
I don't know what she plants, but she digs in the dirt and gets
an insect bite. She comes in, wiping her face with a bandanna.
I believe there are ice cubes in her glass.
On a good day, she sorts the bills and talks on the phone. She
is very cheerful when she receives the mail. She thanks the mailman.
On a good day, she takes her time at the store, shopping for
razors to shave her legs. She likes her legs.
On a medium day, she has a feeling when she reads the newspaper
that is a little like envy, but is also like greatness. There is also
a sense of futility. It is a stinging sensation and she
doesn't like it.
On a medium day, she laughs with her kids. She gets a haircut.
When she is writing poetry, on a medium day, she is writing with
a sense that she is really great. She thinks to herself, Fuck, I'm good.
These are delusions of grandeur. She is self-centered.
Her delusions are true. If only she believed the truth.
On a bad day, she's frantic. She's pissed. She wants the cars to drive
faster. She is not happy with the dirt inside her head. She imagines
removing her brain with a giant ice cream scooper. It is not okay
to be stupid, she says.
But on a good day, she's okay with things. I'm not stupid
she says with a laugh. Ha, ha, ha, who's laughing now?
But on a medium day, she is not eating cookies.
On a bad day, she's got her head in the oven.