After last night's tequila, I need a smoke.
I pace my kitchen in search of matches.
Salt dropped on the floor
sticks to the bottom of my soles.
I'm in no mood to pick up the broom.
Maybe the Hoover man will stop by.
If he claims his machine's second to none,
I'll hold up my dirty foot, demand proof.
I look forward to men arriving at my door.
Sometimes they're expected,
telephoned to my rescue
when storms down power lines
or water floods my cellar.
Other times, they come uninvited.
Dressed in blue suits, prophets
bring God to my front door,
politicians solicit my vote.
Pollsters ask my opinion on everything
from abortion to brand of soap.
Recently, I have a yen for salesmen.
They always polish their shoes,
carry suitcases, and smell like my father.
Most bring gadgets guaranteed to ease chores
and free my days for moments on the sofa
when I open my blouse, finger the latest
pulley or hose, and yield to a demonstration
of strange hands on my thighs.
It's true what you've heard:
lie down with dogs, wake up with fleas.
Sleeping with Hector comes with a price.
The rash spreads from my thighs
across the expanse of my belly,
normally dove-white, now speckled
red as a measled child.
I run into Hector's ex at the pharmacy.
She asks what he gave me, tells
how once, her mouth bloomed maggots
after blowing his cock. The doctor suspected
her man copulating with corpses or goats.
She gave Hector a choice, quit his job
at the morgue or risk divorce.
Hector moved in with me the following week.
Love makes a woman miss the most obvious signs.
I didn't question his clothes reeking of formaldehyde,
nor his orders to lie still when we fucked,
my mouth frozen open without making a sound.
In Bed with an Atheist
I took an atheist home to find out what it's like
to fuck a man void of God. The whole time the bed shook,
I heard angels singing dark hymns. My palms bled,
thighs burned with the certainty of crucifixion.
All night I dreamed of demonic babies, a horned
embryo floating in my womb. Would Lucifer's son
wear black nappies and gnaw his thumb? Would I suck
his infant cock, taste salty roe or lemon sorbet?
A host of fallen angels fills my house with proverbs.
Outside the window, gray clouds lower burdens.
Somber wet dreams break my sleep, or is it
the atheist's second cumming?
He shakes me awake, points at a starless sky,
and warns of a storm brewing.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
holds an MA in Psychology and lives near Richmond, VA. Her fiction and poetry have appeared in several online and print publications. "Primitive," her chapbook of poetry, is forthcoming from Pudding House Press.