The pitfalls of the can-do way are subtle

and known by worker ants and women, generally.

A hardy ethic saps our strength, the energy

expenditure our shape, and soon we flap

like scarecrows through the lobby.

I’ve bought six dresses, each one chic 

and too soon gappy. Saturdays I wonder

if idling will round me out again—

and whether I would even dare to wish it.

A return to a more comfortable shape

and comfortable yet frumpy frocks

would leave no trace of the long days and nights

and erase something important… I can’t tell what.

Something like me, but stifling. A strangler fig

befriended of ambition—

ensoiled in my open ribs.