Talons
~for Ted, as groomed as he is fictional
Big night tonight.
Had a glass of water
and didn’t even refill the Brita.
Didn’t smile in commiseration
when my husband shed a tear
at the years of practiced patience
keeping me steady while helping
our 10 year old with a devastating
set of math problems.
“When I tried,
she was uncooperative,”
he reports, gloomily.
“Yeah,” I say,
sipping room temperature water,
“I’m a miracle worker.”
I created a profile
on Match last night -
I’m so sick of things.
No, I don’t hunt.
Wow, big fish, bub.
Sure, I’d eat your venison.
Hard pass on the MAGA hat,
the gun guy, the feral-faced
50-something named “Boobs.”
Are you filthy, fit, fat,
hairy, smooth as a seal?
Age, race, weight, height?
I don’t care about that shit.
I just want a tender roast,
a heavy fork, a generous pour.
I suppose he should be vaccinated
for polio and tetanus;
no bubble to click for that.
Now that I think about it,
I write from under my king-sized
comforter, screen dimmed -
Do you snore? Moisturize?
How often do you change
your sheets?
Do you regularly trim
your toenails, I ask.
Can you julienne a carrot?
Thoughts on chatty dentists?
Your mouth cranked,
packed with steel tools?
Wait, here’s a good one.
Would you wash my bra
with a dog blanket,
scrub everything
in the sink
but the skillet?
Seriously, will you
leave that for me?
I need to know.
I’m a straight, white,
middle class lady with bangs,
bored with being bored,
each deepening wrinkle
the zipping up of rage
- laugh lines, I’ll say -
touch them up with filters
that lighten disappointment,
direct the eye away from erosion
of seaside cliffs, dying coral reef,
and drink enough wine to text a friend
a picture of my tits, le sigh.
I’m classless, and kidding,
so instead I'll scroll Zappos
or West Elm
since everyone knows
privilege isn’t hot
and best saved
for overpriced cocktails
with loud groups
of exfoliated women
enchanted by what
they don’t have
and exhausted by what they do.
In the morning,
dehydrated, idiotic,
I’ll place my hands
around my husband’s waist,
gaze lovingly at my daughter,
and use the last of the cream
before driving into
a blood red sunrise
for breakfast and a motel
with Ted, who texted
a pic of his feet,
toenails freshly clipped.