by Carrie Chappell
& I wrap mine around hers,
Quietly, as we wait for
Spirituality’s spoon
To deliver us to candlelight
& jealousy to cork doldrum
Right in the sipper.
Our silhouettes are like two
Women fighting the same body
Or maybe like one body fighting
Two terribly angular faces.
Our legs swish under the table
& I feel like saying taffeta.
It’s then we separate,
Contemplate just how self-centered
We can get, what with good grammar
& a liberal education.
All this at sundown
Of course, in the shallows
Of the yellow kitchen,
Where my roux cackles
Louder than she can
& the burning butter
Is the smell of her hair.
So we spray the air
With our questions,
Walk the dim hall to go out to
Mock the moon.
All we feel in us is the night,
As in all we feel in us is a sea
Of terrible euphemism,
As in the water is smaller
& kept, as in they built moats
Around us. We sit there, mope,
In our whiskey-crisping critiques
& wait for the men
To turn to brooms,
The women to swoon
& whisper, & for our words
To sink in with the sureness of
How we fought for them.
Our plots twist
up our legs like
Jasmine & her fingers
Wrap around my drink
& mine around hers
So that we are now woven,
Accomplice, guilty by association.
Two women, two terribly angular faces
Now more terribly outspoken
In our silence, our hush,
Holding out our wisdom to
Wait for a real touch.
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