Hester L. Furey
At first their story shocked her, then she got to like it.
“No!” she told them: “Ladies, you can’t!”
“Who says?” they demanded.
“This is our story!”
They leaned in across the table.
She felt sure their breath could ignite.
One thing about the dead —
they’re pretty ok with corporeal grossness.
They miss everything about their bodies,
hanging onto every shred as long as they can, like you do.
And these girls had been drinking. Oh Lord.
A son had been paying his girlfriend to watch them,
but they had been watching her right back.
When they broke it to him about the tree,
he took it well, but they weren’t quite done with him.
Smooth as sea creatures, they misted her
with a kind of arboreal superglue,
sending out i n v i s i b l e
f i b r o u s
t e n – t —-a—–cles, — s a y ing,
“and that’s why we think you should marry her,”
pulled the gauzy prize into
their circle, just
This is why I say that I am not a good woman.
I look across the table in a freezing Waffle House, and
as you search for the words you think I want to hear,
I glance around in panic for a place to vomit.
I can’t stand to be the person who calls this forth.
I don’t give a damn about a cute purse,
and I am not about to wreck my back with those shoes.
I take no pride in your stinky little stews of fear, hatred, and lust.
I hate your learned economy of fighting and fucking,
how you police my looks and ignore my books.
The life well lived shouldn’t make a dramatic story.
I dream of comfortable silences, a clean and orderly home,
good food, interesting reading, regular bowel movements.
I want the work I love and a man I respect,
to sleep like an innocent at your side each night.
It took a long time, too long, before I saw
a girl who loves you so plainly is much too easy;
you must have a monster, half Salome, half John the Baptist.
Well, here’s my sermon, my monster’s dance:
you got nothing I want, honey. Go back to your wife.