Mad Women

Are we the angels in the house

Or the mad women in the attic

Do we sleep in glass coffins

Decaying into the future

Swooning and falling into immobility

With no agency to speak of

Can we trust our own authorship

Or is our boat sailing to self-sacrifice

Where we, denying ourselves life

Climb onto our roofs

To rip out our striking hair

Unstable in an overwhelming reality

Are we mad women in the attic

Or the good women in the silence

Sipping drain water

Getting sick

So the good widow can bring us flowers

And echo prayers that bring us closure

Shall we lie down in our box

In our corner, in our world

And peer through the cracks

That overlooks the street

Staring at the chimney stalk

Waiting to be decomposed.