This is a simple poem I wrote about how terrified I am that my marriage will turn out at all like the ones in Revolutionary Road and Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? and any number of novels about domesticity in suburbia (not because of who my fiancé is, but because of the simple fact that I am embarking upon a long-term commitment known to produce long-term bitterness). It’s sort of an abstract piece, but it’s not entirely metaphorical. I do, in fact, have a sheep. In case you were wondering, his name is Lenny.
Bertha Mason's Attic 