L.L. Harper

ASSASSIN

All day we mock what
is beyond our touch
and at the end of the day
I drive thirty miles home
to sleep with a man
who doesn’t deserve
to live his life like a slave.
My children slake their own
thirsts hours away and I
watch videos of their childhood.
Outside, the pansies I have
yet to plant wither in October sun.
I am an American woman,
spoiled as last month’s gravy,
ripe as ground pork in a dumpster,
tethered by plenty,
undone by complacency
vivid as a severed hand.

—from Rattle #28, Winter 2007