MONDAY

Monday.
Heavy wet sheets slap the sky.
Inside,
Certain cats begin to levitate.

The right women
Who have the longest nails,
Who know how to arch their backs

Rise up,
Their dust clothes fluttering like fans.
They bob just under their ceilings
And the spiderwebs go.

Below, the mice run merrily.

And then the day
Is clear and fine

And some women find their feather dusters
Are wings;
They are flying out their windows,
They are circling the church steeple,
The are casting shadows on the snow

And around them, the air seems warm.

The preacher's wife is crying.
The preacher's wife will not look twice.
The preacher's wife cannot get off the ground.