|Most of the World's Water Is Locked Into Ice|
We pluck our eyebrows and dye our hair.
Sadness rides on our ribs all day.
We listen to music in the pinch of night.
Our husbands cheat and don't care.
Fear drives a needle through
each thin hand. We spend our money
on gold jewelry, take roses
from the wrong men, wear gowns
that drag on carpets, catch
their hems in our platform shoes.
We'd rather die than be dumpy,
stout, so old we'll forget the words
of the song that keeps us dancing
till everything hurts: bright marriage
ring, blistered hand, feet sore
from the clunky shoes. Our fingers touch
our faces, then loosen our hair. Rich
black, bright red, glowing yellow,
brown thick as a mare's pride
blown back in man-made wind.