American Housewife
Go back to 1952
or ’54—
your choice—
and plug your state-of-the-art
vacuum cleaner
into the wall.
There are the carpets
and the rugs
and the special attachment
for the drapes
and the most powerful nozzle
guaranteed to take the calendar
right off the wall
and your shopping lists
for the next day
and the day after that
and the carrots and potatoes
on the kitchen counter
waiting to be peeled
and put in the oven
for dinner
and the homework
on the table
and the children
in their beds
where you’ve left them
since this morning
like paper dolls
because you’re not in the mood
to play with them today
and your husband—
your husband—
you can catch him
at the door
when he comes home
from work
looking for a dry
martini and a hot
steak and a patient woman
to lie underneath
him so that he
can finish his day off
right.
Suburban Dreams
The grass is cut so perfectly
that you could measure it with a ruler
and your rose bushes are the envy
of the neighborhood
Sally has practiced her scales
until she could play them in her sleep
and Mrs. Woodard wants her
to play in a special recital next month
(because with the last teacher
you could play for fun
but this one is dry and humorless
with a list of strict instructions
and #1 is never let my cat out
when you come for your lesson
though the cat is nowhere near the door
and you’re not a dummy
but she thinks that you are
and addresses you as such)
but it’s all right because the meatloaf
will turn out perfectly and the potatoes
roasted in their jackets with coarse
Kosher salt and thick pats of butter
and in summer you take the kids for a week
at the lake where he grills burgers
and you split open a watermelon so sweet and red
it makes your eyes burn
and you go to church on Sunday
and cheer on the team
and take a Jell-O salad
to the potluck
the one you like with the cherries
and whipped cream and marshmallows
and it’s the best Jell-O salad
anyone’s had and they ask for your recipe
and maybe that night Bill
from two doors away
will think of you
while he’s going down on his wife
because it’s too early for key parties yet—
you’ve still got a decade or two—
so in the meantime you win
ribbons for your needlepoint
and iron the bedsheets so smooth
that you sleep like an angel
and wake with your hair
perfectly coiffed
and your teeth already brushed
and the coffee percolating
and the dishes washed
and breakfast on the table
and the children’s clothes
starched on their hangers
the dog’s nails clicking on the linoleum
and the sun glinting in the window
through a freshly washed pane
onto your fine pink fingernails
and your glossy, glossy hair
and everything that sparkles and shines.
Leah Browning is the author of three short nonfiction books and six chapbooks. Her most recent chapbooks are Orchard City, a collection of short fiction published by Hyacinth Girl Press in 2017, and Out of Body, a collection of poetry published by Dancing Girl Press in 2018. Browning’s fiction and poetry have recently appeared in publications including Mojave River Review, Belletrist Magazine, Poetry South, The Stillwater Review, Four Way Review, The Forge Literary Magazine, The Threepenny Review, Valparaiso Fiction Review, and Watershed Review. Her poems have also appeared on a broadside from Broadsided Press, on postcards and bookmarks from the program Poetry Jumps Off the Shelf, with audio and video recordings in The Poetry Storehouse, in The Wardrobe, and in several anthologies including The Doll Collection from Terrapin Books.