On the wax museum tour of their marriage,
every room sports its bullet hole
or fist-sized gouge, while they,
veterans of each other,
arms around each other’s waist,
recount ten years of drama,
the countless skirmishes now
phrased as casual history:
“Here’s what happens when you stay out all night.”
“And here’s where she learned to cook first
and ask questions later.”
In a day or two, something
will go chemically or financially
completely awry,
but for now, the smell of casserole
blesses the kitchen,
grandmother’s hardangar and cork coasters
grace the burn-pocked coffee table.
So it is, here
having dinner at the end of the world.
On the TV, in front of a local orthodontist,
a teen pickets, her braces glinting
beneath a sign that reads
“They Brok My Toothe.”
Image after image,
like messages in a bottle
no one would bother to read,
like insects in a terrarium
too sluggish to feed,
like this living exhibit oblivious
to the one-way glass,
before which they snuggle,
drinking from the same long neck beer
bemoaning at leisure
how their ten-year-old
traps cats for sport,
straps them to makeshift rafts
and sends their corpses
flaming downriver.
Originally Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 2.
