A Domestic Film by Amy King

his is the director’s cut,
a traveling space in the folded crook
of your plotted hand like silver night
on a thousand platters spreading westward,
then plywood. I watch the brittle flower spread,
almost mobile with her walking petal plans—

Feminine form to feminine prone,
relax and slip your pronouncing eyes
like cake, only softer and heated, across
the unmarried wife waving goodbye
to the silent screen world of strangers
safely baking on Dishwater Island.