Discarded Climaxes                 for my first husband I come from a long line of lapsed dancers. Imprisoned by cricked backs, blown knees, erratic hearts and wasting-away illnesses, we sit, tapping our toes. Jukeboxes longing to be plugged in. Men used to watch when I danced, eyes measuring my breasts, placing bets along the metronome of my hips that they would be the one to claim me. I spread my legs only for you, my dear, a bear who stepped on my feet, pushed when he should've pulled, was always a half-beat off, who wandered away to a corner to talk law when my fervor ran highest. You once liked the heat of my body dancing you to your own climax later, but our dance wound down from the Stones to Lombardo as your attention floundered, leaving me prey to wolves who gladly feasted on the meal you bypassed so easily. I sometimes still think of you, ticking off those fine points of law, your fingertips waltzing away vows as lasting as dreams I once read in Braille from the hopeful air. Pris Campbell ©2007 Lummox Journal 2008 Art: Lady by Burne-Jones Return to Poetry Index II Return to Homepage