June Morning (Wallace Stevens imitation)

1.
Your veil darkened by rain, the steady
Tap-tapping on the tent-top overhead, and the
Teeth bleached to blind all conspire to
Wall me in and leave me there. I smile and
Lift your hands, imagining for a second
How hard I could squeeze them before
Your white teeth disappeared in an
Ungainly yell, and you searched my eyes,
Darkened by rain, looking for reason.
I spend hours alone and find no reason.
Instead I make small sacrifices to
My anger, the mangy, restless, atrophied thing
That I have walled in and left there.
The scratch marks have long since faded
Like raindrop-stains on gray linen suits.

2.
Sitting at the kitchen table, I hear a howl
Echoing in its small chamber: "There is no
Reason for you to find. I pad decrepit in the
Bottom of your throat and you feel like growling."
I built this house and now I live in it,
Gritting my teeth at arguments and burned eggs,
Feeling disgust when my children smile at me,
Bored to death before you even open your mouth.
Outside thunder rolls and sickly trails of rainwater
Lurch down the plate-glass doors. In the garden
The soil grows darker in the rain, while earthworms
Convulse in the grass to escape drowning.
My children want to go out and play, but
I growl at them and make them stay inside.