After Watching the Latest Alcoholic Husband Movie
The man’s bartender folds him
into a yellow cab. The driver
tows him down the dark stretch of road.
We don’t see the driver’s eyes
narrow in the rearview mirror. He knows
he won’t get a tip tonight. The man will
not remember. The man will lose
his wallet. We don’t hear his shoes
catch bar-dust & the aftertaste of
bottom-shelf vodka. We don’t smell
sweaty palms against the front door,
fitting the wrong key into the right
lock. But we know the wife is up
all night. She plays her part perfectly:
enough makeup to say beautiful;
not too much to say main feature.
She makes the bed twice in one
day. The man notices & says nothing.
The scene plays out too long,
we’re thinking, yes, we’ve seen this before,
we keep watching, we want to taste
this train wreck on our own sober
tongues, to blow out our own candles
swathed in Absolut, wicks trembling
down to a lick in the dark. We crane
our necks when the credits roll,
looking for our own names.
Linked Haiku with Ex-boyfriend & Tree Sap
My face is naked
Shards of mirror in the sink
Fish drown sometimes, too
*
Your mind is stunning
I love the way you showed me
trees have answers, too
*
Phone calls in my head
Late nights, pointless loving
numb my brain like ice
If a Quaker shoots himself,
is it ironic or is it just sad?
*
Sometimes I get high
I call my mom, don’t speak
static ’round the wire
*
Wait for me to loose
this noose around the bough
sticky with dried sap
*
Doctor, please prescribe
me a joke—am I the joke?
Are thorns blooming, too?
*
My darling, come home
I won’t eat without your hands
sweeping ants out, too
If a Quaker loots himself,
is he thief, or is he thieved?
*
I flush all my pills
They can join the fish, grow
toxic dorsal fins
*
Come return my heart
My chest crumples from the gap
Stoned like the wolf, too
Is a Quaker’s promise moot
if he won’t swear an oath?
*
Books are just dead trees
giving & giving freely
We steal sap & run
*
Doctor, how to best
burn a lover’s leftovers?
Toothbrush, jacket, toad?
*
My god demands peace
Yours is maybe violent
Revenge sown so deep
*
I’ve thrown your boots out
Stars delete your voicemails
Razors buried whole
Remi Recchia is a trans poet and essayist from Kalamazoo, Michigan. He is a Ph.D. candidate in Creative Writing at Oklahoma State University. He currently serves as an associate editor for the Cimarron Review. Remi’s work has appeared in Columbia Online Journal, Front Porch, and Glass: A Journal of Poetry, among others. He holds an MFA in Poetry from Bowling Green State University.
