I never meant to be a housewife

I thought my life

Was not about this stuff

in my head

yarn and dandruff and bits of timber

a tangled knot of inadequate kindling

all too ready to burn

and i

always looking for the nearest

fire extinguisher

(ah dear lover,

did i not tell you?

your gaze is as good as the spray of baking powder

on the flames of anxiety - for a while.

Even you

can't keep them subdued

forever)

I thought my life

was about the Poor

or at least the Planet

doing something (anything) useful

for these Burning Times

and the Great Imbalance

between carbon and oxygen -

the graves of the Sacred Dead

Mighty dinosaurs and Great plancton

have been plundered

the thieves rich in property and fine cheese.

Now the living butterflies

who took eons

to learn the art of transfiguration

(to kill their own caterpillars

then fly with grace)

are driven into the exposed graveyards

by greed, short-termism and other human sins.

i thought I

would come up with something (anything)

to help such precarious precious life.

instead

i've become a good baker

without sugar or wheat;

well-versed in onions and bones

making nourishing stocks;

i'm quite competent

at running a healthy clean kitchen

on a meagre budget;

skilled at listening to storms of abuse and fear

and saying a few kind words

to the shattered mind and the hungry heart

of people I sort-of know.

I never dreamed of

such humble housewife abilities.

They came about while

i was making

other plans.

Still my nightmares

are of caterpillars

turning to maggots

and rainforests

stripped to deserts

and a dark-hooded stranger

from palestine

knocking at my door

because there is no room

at the Inn;

and I

might be so worried

about the raising rye flour

that I may not

offer them

a warm bed

for the

Night Within.