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Laurel K.
Dodge
Portrait of Unknown Model
The length, exaggerated (yet, proportionate)
of her neck was an instrument
which the painter used (exploited) to measure
the length of her (his) longing
which corresponded directly with his (excessive)
consumption (abuse) of absinthe
which left him stripped naked (shameless)
the center of attention (invisible) at parties.
Her pale eyes, (cool) one grey
one blue, pupil-less and as far away
as a Siberian husky’s running with conviction
deeper into the whiteout cold
were like marbles that clicked (accidentally)
against each other then rolled in opposite
directions across the hardwood floor.
Such is the possibility (impossibility) of love.
The grey-green wall behind the model
was a (waveless) ocean so still it possessed no tide
to sweep him out. Her auburn hair
the color of leaves killing themselves
in autumn was dyed hope. And her black dress,
v-necked that revealed not even a hint of (heart)
cleavage was death waiting to be unbuttoned.
The Next Day
I wake from the recurring dream
in which we are not married
You yell at the earliest bird:
Shut yer pie hole! Fuck the worm,
you mutter. The gutters clear
their throats. After last night’s rain,
the basement walls are as tear-stained
as a widow. The sun through the window
is mean. The sky, blue for now, waits
patiently for clouds. Yesterday,
when I explained our soiled hands and knees
to the neighbor lady, when she said
“what a shame, when will you get another,
the stray down the street just had a litter”
with absolutely no feeling, I wanted to shake
her until her uterus rattled. Now, blue
shards litter the grass and a muddy cat cries
on the front step. My beloved Lazarus.
What’s for breakfast, you yawn as you scratch
your ass. You’ve never so much as cracked
an egg. I towel off the cat and throw what’s left
of his bowl in the trash and think: Home
isn’t where the heart lives; home is where
they have to take you back, dead dads,
flushed goldfish, smashed dogs and cats,
and all—three—of the miscarriages.
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