A Most Startling Exhibition

Every night just past sundown
she opened her bedroom curtains
slipped off expensive dress,
heels, silken underwear
touched herself as a lover would,
gazing into her dresser mirror,
a man's photo its only ornament.

I had never seen a man enter her home.

Sometimes I watched cautiously
across our mutual lawns.
Other times I drew my curtains,
blushed at her exhibitionism.

I spoke about her at work.
Surely she must know I see,
I told my friends.

Sometimes she thrust memories
of my late husband into my mind,
before he jerked and rolled
to his side of the bed.

At such times, I pulled out my Bible,
stitched crooked hems, baked fallen bread,
kept my drapes shut.

She disappeared completely in late June.
My eyes crawled the darkness nightly.

In early July, her bedroom lights flashed on.
Pacing from wall to wall, she
flung suitcase, dress, underwear
onto the floor, wrung her hands,
tugged her hair into a tight bun,
then sat, legs butterflied,
fingers frantic in their movements,
mouth forming multiple ovals.

Unable to stop myself.
I watched until she finally slumped,
arms limp by her side.

The night lay heavy between us.
Air refused to enter my lungs.
Unfamiliar fluids dampened
my pants.

Bless me, Father, For I Have Sinned

Out back a cat howled 
and trashcans clattered,
breaking the spell.

Abruptly, her body uncoiled.
She unpinned her hair,
shook it free
leaned forward
kissed her reflection
picked up the photograph
smashed it against her dresser
stroked her shoulders
creamed her hands, then,
looking towards my window,
pulled out a small revolver and
blew a hole through her head.


Pris Campbell
©2002

Art:  Study of Women,  by Khnopff
Music: Loriano by Cisneros

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