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Aug 122013
 

by Ken Haas

 

She dreams her man has sold

her favorite couch, which she doesn’t love

like when it was new,

though it’s worn to comfort,

 

patches on its upper back discolored by the sun,

center cushion stretched slack

by a couple of restless children,

dowels creaky when she nestles down,

 

throw pillows that swell to fill

the hollow in her neck when she reads,

like a compromise that’s turned out well;

 

refurbishment has crossed her mind—

some creases pressed from the corners,

frayed piping in the arms restitched,

tighter stuffing here and there—

 

but she’s not the type to blot

the sweat of college boys,

like drops of muscatel on a faded skirt,

the pinch of their belt buckles,

their insouciant seed tucked among the folds,

 

or the time that Ray, her first husband,

feathered the bark of his palm

across her breast, his lips moved the fabric

with words she couldn’t hear,

her plush heart split open at the seams.