I am sick of the drudgery. The laundry
to do, the house to keep clean, driven

by the demons of those who raised me, their ghosts
whipping invisible belts. Mush! Mush! Faster,

faster! No dishes left in the sink, no crumbs left
on the floor! I’m sick of the meetings, people

voicing issues just to hear themselves talk. Blah.
Blah. Blah. Yesterday I put the meeting on speaker

in my pocket and hauled piles of pulled knotweed
to a spot deep in the woods, their stalks heavy

with clumps of earth that dragged behind them
like a prisoner’s leg cuffs. O nature, o self, o mortgage,

release me from this trap of working womanhood!
I want wildness—sand in my hair, my hands wet

with creek water, my shorts ragged. I want freedom from
cleanliness and the smell of lemon pledge. I want to grow feral

like a forest cat, my nails black with dirt, my mouth stained
red with berries that could be mistaken for blood.