She sits quiet, drunk on her own anger
again & his despicable
drips down each fang just like
the bourbon from out his pores—
don’t misunderstand, she’s seasoned, racked up
husbands & guzzlers, & all she learned
from Mother who was no princess &
all the grandmothers dating back
to the Revolution & perhaps even back
to Babylon, too, the kind of ladies
whose mouths keep ready at the draw
& even—sometimes—a knife
in the boot or under the cuff but always
(all ways) a foot out the door
& no time for red ribbons in their hair
or the tipped-hat gallantry of sailors &
cowboys, no, just a girl & her horse,
perhaps, or her pen or her knuckles
or her two good feet, & today he’s chiding her
again & she knows someday soon—
not tomorrow, but one day—that sleeping quake
in her will erupt & the whole house
will be on fire & she’ll be gone so quick
he’ll wonder if she was ever real, maybe
just a night vision or a made-up thing
like a Jackalope or Medusa or God.
_________________________________________________
Originally published in Flapperhouse and appears in Verlee’s third book, prey.
was not a sacred prostitute; she was a public woman, who might be found along the roadway (as virgins and married women should not be). She could engage in sex, but might also be sought out for lactation, midwifery, and other female concerns. By looking for a