The Mechanic's Wife


You know all the clichés, the grease 
monkey and his big wrench, the dumb 
thug with his six pack. Some 
are true—buxom babes 
abreast calendars. Grime 
under his nails—stains
even GoJo can’t get out. 
I don’t mind the smell
of oil when he touches me. But I wonder 
as he holds me, his proposals 
to do something different.  
What is he thinking, 
when his eyes spark 
with the thing I can’t name? 
You’d think he’d watch football 
all weekend, hockey, chuck rocks 
at dogs. You’d think
he’d carry a big gun and stalk
and track, but he likes to watch 
Oprah, and the cooking shows
each weekend. When he’s not 
looking, I watch him checking
his reflection, pat-patting cream 
under his eyes, arrange his hair 
like a model’s, the mirror 
suddenly his best friend.  
And once, I found him dancing 
to the oldies, hands flying, 
feet prancing high and wild 
to the Bee Gees: Stayin’ Alive.  





The Plastic Surgeon's Wife


She knows he’s watching her again, 
pictures pulling patches of skin 
into and out of place. In dreams, 
he’s wearing his white coat and stethoscope 
while he sharpens knives, 
oils the joint in his scissors, practices 
writing subcutaneous 
with a black felt-tip on velvet.
Each person he meets is blank canvas— 
the women, old and young, 
with their sagging need, the pleading 
that pools in their eyes 
and the men too—the lift and tuck, 
the marvel of stretch and sew.  
She wonders, did his mother show him 
how to bring thread to needle 
and not needle to thread? And the knots 
his father taught him never seem to fail. 
These days, he paints in stitches 
that dissolve into black and blue 
eyelashes, remaking bruised egos.  
When they make love, she fears
how he’d like to improve her— 
a little lift here, a little tighter there, 
fill her breasts with vanilla, 
admire the suction in her soul— 
his reservoir, never full.

Published in A Theory of Lipstick, Main Street Rag Publications: 2013



The Dog Catcher's Wife


There he goes again, all the clichés
of himself in place – ham on rye 
in his backpack, hat cocked, 
pockets full of charcoal.                            
He’s dressed today as bone, 
Swisher Sweet clamped 
between his teeth. She’s concerned 
that even the nets, nooses or tranquilizer 
darts won’t save him from the angry
ones, the tethered necks and tense chains. 
In another time,                                             
he’d come home after lighting lamps,
after hours of trying to torture 
confessions out of mad mongrels.    
Today he saves cats in trees,                             
potbellied pigs on the lam, pythons 
wrapped around water pipes.
All the scowling and grunting,
while he checks his list for licenses.  
Sometimes he returns smelling 
of spit and snarl, of dust and grain, 
the edges of his leash frayed,   
his catch pole long and empty as an alley. 
In his sleep he whispers his love to them,
begs them to surrender gently.
She pats his shoulder then,
says, that’s okay,
as he lifts his head to call
come, come, 
be a good dog.

Published in A Theory of Lipstick, Main Street Rag Publications: 2013