UNDERDRESSED
Tonight,
Mrs. Dalway has pearls—a long, thin string
wrapped three times around her sinewy neck
dangling like loosened chains—bought
with the money left by her late husband
after he was found dead due to
undisclosed circumstances.
Mr. Loren sports uncharacteristically
humble cufflinks—square, clean little
diamonds, simple and fresh—most likely
a gift from his twenty-three year old
mistress with the thin waist and
even thinner wallet.
Mrs. Loren wears her ring obnoxiously
flexing her fingers into view every
thirty seconds or so. The hefty diamond
like a trophy, like the trophy she was
until she turned thirty-five and
Mr. Loren began taking especially long
business trips.
Laurena, even, wears rubies.
They rest in the divots of her collarbone
before plunging down in a straight
line between her full breasts. Mr. Grevald,
it seems, wears Laurena. She dangles
off his arm, priceless in her exotic beauty.
Rare, glittering, silent Laurena—even she
wears rubies.
In a moment: my skin blushes, all too aware
of the nakedness of my collarbone,
my earlobes, my fingers.
All too aware of how underdressed
I am.
In the next moment, your hand
finds my waist, your lips brush against
the shell of my ear and I think, suddenly,
that sometimes love looks better
underdressed.
UNRAVELING
New England in the fall. Maine,
specifically. A small house
near Camden, wine colored shutters
and a cluttered kitchen. The heat
is on but the house never feels
quite as warm as it looks
from the outside.
My hair has turned brown
with the leaves, the water on
the stove boils with an
urgency incongruent with the
otherwise lazy comforts
of the house.
I make tea and the two lobsters
rest on the counter, claws bound,
watching. I feel naked, suddenly.
I bring the tea to her, study
the way her eyebrows move,
the way they bend together
intently as she reads. Notice threads
untying, loosening themselves
from the blanket thrown
over her lap. She will be
upset when she sees. Should
fix those.
Have you put the lobsters
in yet? she asks, pausing
from Everything I Never
Told You, folding the corner
of page eighty-three
inwards.
Back to the kitchen, to
the counter where the lobsters
sit waiting, bound. The water
is at a full boil now, has been
for a while, really.
There is a recipe: a
methodology. We have two
options—throw the lobsters
in the bubbling water, place
the lid on top, walk away.
Ignore the clattering, the
clambering, the clutching
of their claws against
the side of the pot.
Or there is the knife.
Plunge it into their heads
between the stalks,
devil and mercy all
at once. Then the water,
no clattering or clambering—
just a peaceful simmer.
Have you put the lobsters
in yet? she asks. I pause
unsure of which murder
I would like to commit
today. Unsure of how
to tell her that her
blanket is falling
apart.
Unsure of how to tell her
that for me, this house
burns cold, that the lobsters
are lucky. That they don’t
have to choose how
they die.
UNRAVELING
New England in the fall. Maine,
specifically. A small house
near Camden, wine colored shutters
and a cluttered kitchen. The heat
is on but the house never feels
quite as warm as it looks
from the outside.
My hair has turned brown
with the leaves, the water on
the stove boils with an
urgency incongruent with the
otherwise lazy comforts
of the house.
I make tea and the two lobsters
rest on the counter, claws bound,
watching. I feel naked, suddenly.
I bring the tea to her, study
the way her eyebrows move,
the way they bend together
intently as she reads. Notice threads
untying, loosening themselves
from the blanket thrown
over her lap. She will be
upset when she sees. Should
fix those.
Have you put the lobsters
in yet? she asks, pausing
from Everything I Never
Told You, folding the corner
of page eighty-three
inwards.
Back to the kitchen, to
the counter where the lobsters
sit waiting, bound. The water
is at a full boil now, has been
for a while, really.
There is a recipe: a
methodology. We have two
options—throw the lobsters
in the bubbling water, place
the lid on top, walk away.
Ignore the clattering, the
clambering, the clutching
of their claws against
the side of the pot.
Or there is the knife.
Plunge it into their heads
between the stalks,
devil and mercy all
at once. Then the water,
no clattering or clambering—
just a peaceful simmer.
Have you put the lobsters
in yet? she asks. I pause
unsure of which murder
I would like to commit
today. Unsure of how
to tell her that her
blanket is falling
apart.
Unsure of how to tell her
that for me, this house
burns cold, that the lobsters
are lucky. That they don’t
have to choose how
they die.