beautiful vacuum

 i ask the vacuum for advice it says,
"house wife house wife." i correct the machine.
i explain, "house husband."
i was trying to get it to talk to me
about whether or not i should buy
a new knife. i crave to stab the wall.
just one nice slit. i tell my lover
as he stands over his roasted tilapia,
"i love the way flesh looks when it's cooked."
i see the ruffles. a good skirt. the school bell
promises to change us for the better.
the smell of cooking vacuum. the smell
of burning dust. i get my history from
my father who dances with the vacuum when
no one else is watching. only, an eldest daughter
sees everything. in the shower my parents 
come in the bathroom. we are in fog so it is
okay. they come to tell me, "i don't know
exactly what you are?" i used to think
i came from a cut open vacuum sack. 
along with the pennies & the crushed 
beetle wings. i take pride in lurking around
baseboards & calling operators to connect me
to the nearest gender. the truth is what i want
is a vacuum with a bow on it. something
really domestic. a hose that helps
me trim my face down to a pencil eraser. 
the vacuum is offended by how demanding i am
of its throat. i drink dead leaves. i read
a magazine with ads for weight loss pacts
with the devil. everything is cheap if nothing
is cheap. the vacuum tells me i need to try harder.
my parents cross their arms. a parent-teacher conference
with the vacuum. i'm nervous. i don't remember
what the machine has to say. in bed last night
i told my partner, "i think we should get married," then,
"how do you do that?" i considered a vacuum
officiant. clean up my act. get the dust from
my chin. i walked by the baseball field 
when i lived in the pocket of a pilling- cloth man.
the door on the telephone was sick. 
i worked all night. hands & knees & beautiful vacuum.
the place still was never-- is never-- ready.