This is a poem, that while it had its moments, I felt those moments did not compensate for what was often an overwrought, overly fanciful, OTT, WTF? rendering of its subject. N is given a pedicure as a birthday gift from her husband. We get this
Perhaps it was for him, then, hoping to revive that long neglected (notice the purple ink?)/garden of our early love, that I ascended a seat as elevated/as a throne, on the morning of my 50th birthday,/at Womanly Illusions
from there, noting that a woman is then "crouched beneath me," N cringes at the subservience and is reminded of her mother and other members of her family taken brutal advantage of. Then we have
Yet here I was/with my sympathy for the workers, my love of Marx, my hatred/and fear of the bourgeoisie, the robber barons, the planter class,/all kings and queens, the Ferdinand and Imelda Marcoses, the Richard Nixons and George Bushes of the world. Here I was swooning/
(not too strong a word) at the pricey ministrations directed at my feet. Can you hear me gag?
And on and on. It was partially mitigated by a very frank and intimate portrait of her father massaging her mother's work worn feet.
I see him starting to massage them both,/uncrimping her toes, and threading his fingers in between/to excavate the sweaty, fragrant nits of hidden grime./Now, he is kneading her swollen soles until she groans and leans back, closing her eyes, as relaxed and open/as if she's lying there alone.
This is it. Wading through a lot of purple prose to get to this. Several pages. Even a good writer hits a clunker, sometimes.