October 7, 2014
Now morning sickness is the proof of love—
I’m sick to half past death of proving it.
I should have swiped his badge, not let him in,
but I’d go mad not knowing if he sees
the beauty he once said he saw in me.
Or am I what they say: an aging bitch
who’s gotten knocked-up one too many times?
At least he saves his better entrances
for me, arriving late at parties, arms
too full of flowers. Their scents intensify
the pale blue iris of his eyes. He thrusts
them in my arms, as if it were a loss
our laughter at this joke repaired to say
he knows I was deflowered years ago.
All day, I dress myself in memories;
they cut my circulation like a girdle,
and when I talk, a numbness haunts my lips.
THE DIRECTOR’S WIFE
Kitty Oppenheimer, biologist
By John Canaday