Domestic Arrangement I can project myself easier into a flower than a person.—Roethke A woman wakes with the sun and imagines she’s the quick- bruising white of a daisy. For the rest of the day she may sit inside a chrysanthemum, her own November flower, washing in the spice of a fine ginseng soup. Her blooms are scent, bending under the bee on their throats, or else all throat, the small-veined skin stretched over perfume. Even the bees’ wild dreams are clearer than the work of the mind of her husband, who sleeps as she reads. Soon he will get up, prepare for meetings, pull at his tie. She’ll have no idea what he’s thinking. The woman tries to picture his face surrounded by leaves, hands sprouting with curling petals. He’d have a tidy smell, dipped in powder and set out in morning air. He would turn toward her warmth as he woke.