Bored already with herself, the empty
wine glasses along the kitchen shelf, dry

for months. She hides a bottle in the closet,
takes it out from time to time & covets

even as she holds it. She’s practicing
the practiced cynicism of a teen-

aged Buddha: Nirvana on the stereo,
damask curtains drawn across the windows.

The world & its attachments must be left
outside. She’s under house arrest

or in a convent. Call it narrow room.
If she’s the bride, desire’s the bridegroom.

She craves the craving: careful, nonchalant.
Not-needing it is somehow worse than want.