Miniature

Everything is for sale.
A sack of salt, a homeland.
The glad grace
of the mother of the bride.

The slow blood
of our new family.
There is no wind.
There is an all-weed

cul-de-sac at the end
of our road, crammed tight:
ragweed, purpletop,
nutsedge, pennycress

(which, for all my power,
I cannot clear out).
We drink tea from teacups
with unmatched saucers.

We trade tips. But who can say
how to be a wife forever?
How best to re-root?
All these women and still,

my inkling is not to nourish.
Dues unpaid. Just us and the tea
and our mothernaked selves.