I like how precious looks like precocious
and I look blonde and glowy like a sickness.
Or the bowl of apricots tumbled across
the hardwood. My mother tells me as we stack
back the fruits, to be a good wife I need to start
with the Oxy early.
She tells me if I turn out to be a cheater, never
admit it. Holds the mirror as I trace perfumed oil
around my collarbone and says
Roll a little softer.