oh that.
that's just my habitat.
some women
take up counted cross stitch,
others
--with scorched souls--
even like golf
as if the order and pointlessness
were balm
for their frightening wounds.

me,
I have my habitat.
it's filled with
a green growy tangle
and those cries
like animated bells
that made you open the door
in the first place.

every night
I go in there.
most mornings
I come out again
either elevated
or barely alive.
either way, it keeps me fresh
like tennis
except
my medical bills are enormous
and my poetry
keeps getting sharper and more feral.

now that you've seen it
I know you won't be back anymore
or else you'll want a piece of all of this
mistakenly thinking that I,
like it,
will be exciting.
people want
to spend time in my habitat
like wanting to space walk
without gear
or training
or
a Houston to rely on.

my habitat
is my own private
supermax
funhouse
and I am just Bluebeard's wife
glad he's gone off to sea
while I
merrily
open the door
to my habitat
and disappear into it
flying solo
like Girl Lindbergh.