122 THE MISSOURI REVIEW • WINTER 2019
Too Much or Nothing at All
It is spring. I left the pumpkins
rotting outside all winter, and now
only their caved-in shells are left.
Gloveless, I toss them over a hill.
There is a gap in my screen door—
at night, the mosquitos find me alone.
What a great woman I am, nameless.
Maybe I was magnificent—once,
but maybe only once.
Now, pumpkins rot on my porch.
Anyway, who would really want
to be great? Great women are unhappy.
They don’t kill spiders in their own showers
with their Dollar Store bottles of shampoo,
or have sex in basement game rooms,
or eat Skippy straight from the jar with
a plastic spoon, late at night, braless.
Yes. I have what it takes to be average.
These are the things I tell myself at night,
alone, and quiet.