Judas HausfrauJill Alexander Essbaum
Judas Hausfrau. The wife of Lot. I do not let well-enough alone. I do not care to. But you already know this. Unmapped, I am the lay you called Strange Land, your risk and periphery, all borderline. And yet, I am the exact edge I’m on. Verge, lip. Hell’s Jezebels. I serve you well. But the night matron will make her rounds. And I will put my hands down holes they oughtn’t go in. Sweet little gleaming thing, all spittle and spunk. Christ, it is never enough: Covens of bedroom men, convening. A swarm of drones. Mounts of lancers, hussars, horsemen. A sea of weeping men with hard-ons, hard, hard upon me. Pick a card— it’s always the queen. Sir, I owe you nothing. My dowries are collapsed. I am the ghost your wedding photo snapped into clean halves, a knock-off joypop good for a tumble or two. Mrs. You, my white dress shines as black as the night. I do not fight it. On the eve of scars and jags, I am chrism in the mouth. Schlaf, Traum. I wear ropes around my neck and watch my back. I cellar the coins. I purse the salt. I am tall in my sins. Don’t you forget it. This target is tainted. Square up and take your aim. The stained satin. The Satan.
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