Get gone,
take your golden down,
hike your skirts and run.
Take your bruise-punched harm,
with the awful sorry,
and the sigh and clucking
that you make,
brooding hen.

Take leave,
back to the place
that birthed you,
back to the couch
that grew you,
back to the family
that chewed and chewed
until you emerged
full of holes
and too eager.

Sweep the dust,
draw the curtains,
spray perfume
for your musk.
Collect the debris,
and all five of your belongings,
and ride your broom
into fractured dusk.