What a load of crap. You fool. None of that matters now.
A breeze rattles the slats of the venetian blinds, catches the cover of Pleasure Dome, the Picasso-esque image filled with phallic symbols, penises waving in the wind, waving at you. You pick up the book, flip through the pages. Linger over titles – I Apologize for the Eyes in My Head, Thieves of Paradise, Copacetic. You read Safe Subjects: “Say something about real love. Yes, true love—more than parted lips, than parted legs . . . Let the brain stumble . . .”
The poem makes you think of your last anniversary, just a few weeks ago, when Karl said he wanted another baby. He had surprised you, renting an ocean-front room in Laguna and arranging for your mother to keep Kaylee for the weekend. After steak and pinot noir at the Beach House, he took you back to the room, switched on the fireplace and opened a bottle of champagne. “You amaze me,” he said.
“Hmm,” you said.
“Stellar wife, stellar mom,” he told you. “Kaylee's just like you.”
You winced and said, “Please.”
“Don't be modest,” he said, reaching for your hand, pulling you onto his lap, caressing you, lifting his face to yours. A lingering kiss and then he said, “I've been thinking . . .”
“That's dangerous.”
“I think it's time we had another baby,” he said.
You stood up and looked down at him, thinking about (strangely) endometriosis. “Shouldn't we talk about it? Plan?”
“Why?” he said. “We planned to have two kids. We're down one.”
“I've changed my mind,” you said. “I'm not sure I want anymore.”
“You don't mean that, do you?” he said. “Not that long ago, you were the one bugging me about it.”
“I'm serious.”
Your husband leered at you.
“Come here, my serious girl,” he said, patting the sofa beside him. You sat down, picked up your glass of champagne, chugged it. Poured another.
And then he kissed you again, hand on breast. You experienced the sense of being watched. Impossible. But there it was. Students on the balcony, peeping through the window. Someone coughing. You heard giggles. Karl pushed you back against the sofa. The weight of him made it difficult to breathe, the arm of the sofa cutting into your neck, your shoulder. Your hand fell asleep. Grinning, the poetic punk watched you. Your body massaged here, there as Karl worked you past resistance. He worked you out of your clothes, discarded his shirt, lifted his hips and pushed down his slacks, his face tight, his mouth a rigid O. He put you on your knees, facing the window, and as he took you from behind, your reflection brought to mind Komunyakaa's bird of prey. But the thought didn't last. Karl pulled you into his rhythm. You heard the sound of the waves crashing.
You slam your fist into your lap. The sound it makes is suh-lut. You have always been a slut. If Karl had known how many there had been before him. Such a weakness. No resistance. You thought you'd grow out of it!
Knuckles aim for your thighs, hands slap your belly. You grab your dress as if to rip it off, pencils fly, your hand catches a pile of essays, hurls them into the air. You pick up the portrait of you and Karl, slam it on the desk. Glass shatters, pieces pierce your arm, a finger. You drop the frame onto the floor. You are bleeding. A noise like an animal howling fills the air. You sit in the middle of the floor, holding your bleeding hand, and you whisper, “Dirty bitch.”
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