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Elizabeth DeAngelo

Musings Over a White Picket Fence


Don’t look at me like that when I

take my Prozac with Tanqueray and

ask why it doesn’t work. I know

it’s because the sky wore a darker shade

of blue today and my husband only loves me

when we talk about him. Damn,

where’s my Emmy for best-supporting actress?

I’ve been folding tee shirts for years now,

and all I have is this stupid townhouse to show for it.

Thanks For Your Unsolicited Advice

I have diagnosed myself with righteous indignation.

Symptoms include delusions that I am not, in fact,

my mother’s daughter and that my drinking is

the elegant kind that lets me get my daughter to

ballet class instead of clinging to the toilet

making already-broken promises, wondering just

how much the dry cleaning will cost—but, you’re right,

I should smile more.

What Are You Trying to Prove

You claim to make six figures, but I’ve seen

your tax returns. I never cared for

commas or their little breaths. Listen to them

shatter on the shower floor when my arms

grow too angry to hold them. You hate

footprints on scrubbed tile.

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