She Cuts Down the Lakes So They Appear StraightLucy Biederman
Her “at market.” Her with a falcon on her shoulder ordering the neighborhood boys off her property. Her smiling prim as a Friends of the Museum brochure. Her receiving a new sound system on Christmas Eve. She walks in my sleep into her life. She writes to say: “In her neck are the worms that slide to the sidewalk after a thunderstorm. They lie around and see what they can get. “Something, something. “… and every mile my car goes is another mile away from her.” Her with a bitter look skinning a carrot at her kitchen “island.” Her in a nightgown, smelling expensive, floating around wiping dust. Her and the falcon turning their force-field faces toward her spouse when he picks her up from work. Their sleek car speeds toward green. The fancy night scatters its favors unfairly. Her hand understands the grandstanding for attention in the ingénue she advises; it grips his face with the tenderness of the falcon digging its clawed feet into a human shoulder, and he feels loved. She’s curated some words about it to drop at “supper.” Little does she know her lipstick lies in the blonde leather passenger seat. It fell from her purse when she got out to hear the visiting symphony. It’s nothing, it’s nothing, here’s what happens at the end: she gets it after the concert and it’s nice and cool from having been in the car. The husband plies her life with annoyances and silly little kisses. The little poet-boy with the bird claw sustaining his face takes the fame and e-mails her regularly. The horror never comes. If I lived in this stanza I would never sleep, I’d be so mean.
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