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The first done was
that holiday done.
He said something stupid,
and she let him have it.
“What? We’re done.”
The second done
came in the laundry room,
in a nasty exchange
where he said,
“You’re so fucking miserable. Why?”
To which she replied,
“Fuck you. We’re done.”
The third done
came on the dance floor in Mexico.
She wanted to dance, they just flew in.
He wanted to go to the hotel room
and have sex.
She stormed back to the room.
Made him sleep on the couch.
In the middle of the night he came to bed,
As he was going down on her,
she stopped him, waved her finger and said,
“Last time, we’re done.”
The fourth done came on
a balcony in Madrid.
He held her from behind
and she felt it turn off for him.
Like a light switch.
She didn’t say a word.
It was a silent, but deadly done.
The fifth done came
when they met back in New York.
It was brief,
she gave him a peck on the cheek,
they had lunch and she left.
He said, “I know, we’re done.
“Still love you though.”
The sixth done came
as he was writing his book in the desert.
She called him and told him
that she was packing her things.
Her mother rented a huge shipping container
and they took absolutely everything.
He came home to an empty house,
with his new boots that book money had bought.
“It’s my turn” he said to the squirrel,
(who had returned, hoping for some almonds.)
“To be done.”
Got all gussied up.
Because, let’s face it,
you only have one chance
to make a 4th impression.
Because the first never goes as planned.
The second, you have more latitude,
but it could be just infatuation.
The third, well, who cares by then?
It’s the 4th that really makes or breaks it.
Max wore his blue suit
with the silk Deco tie.
And those shoes he bought
He reasoned, “What have I got to lose?”
She thought, “Hmm…he’s a clothes horse. I can work with that.”
Cartwright texted her a photo
of himself in mauve and slightly off white
“Nice color.” she replied.
He sent her another one with him in red.
Crimson with black lace.
“Oh, boy” she thought,
“He’s high maintenance.”
He was feminine,
“i’d like you to be excited
about me wearing those panties.”
he said, almost apologetic.
“Yeah” said Milla,
“I’m not going to be.
I could pretend, but that’s not me.”
“Oh, I see.” said Cartwright.
“Would you prefer I lie?” asked MIlla.
“No, no. Tell me the truth.” he said,
looking past her across the building.
Milla was type cast,
as the “Crying Mother”
in film after film.
Little did they know
that the particular
deep and penetrating sorrow
had a source.
It was not faked,
or over acting.
It was raw emotion.
You don’t get to be Queen
You can not lead,
if you can not overcome.
She was the Ingenue,
the star of a regional production
of Pippy Longstocking.
And he was her sinister lover.
He was possessive to the extreme.
Jealous with a vengeance.
He hurt her.
He beat her.
She got away from him.
and that town.
She not only survived,
she found herself,
it was her first test
in becoming Queen.
A Viking Queen,
leader of women and men.
The woman was three sheets to the wind.
Wearing an old black fur stole. Might have been fox.
She could barely stand, let alone walk home.
She was the wife of her older brother’s friend.
Milla just wanted to make sure she made it home.
The woman’s cousin was also there.
Together he and Milla half carried her home.
She lived on the top floor
of a two story building.
The stairs were steep.
They managed to get her to stagger
to the top of the stairs.
He knocked on the door.
As they waited for an answer,
she began to fall backwards,
down the staircase.
Milla reached out to stop her
She jammed her thumb,
heard it pop.
The cousin grabbed the fox stole.
It came off and she fell.
Too much for both of them.
Milla and he both looked at the stole.
It was held together
by a pin that read “Death to Capitalism.”
“Start small with your toe in the water.
This company is going to be very special.”
At the same time she was
working a side voodoo.
You know, just in case.
It’s called the “Beef Tongue Shut Up Hoodoo Spell”
Step 1: Get a beef tongue.
Step 2: Slit open the tongue, down the middle.
Step 3: Say the name of the person you want to shut up.
Step 4: Say the following spell, “I cross and cover you,
come under my command. I command you to hold your tongue.”
Step 5: Cut off a piece of the tongue,
put it in a mason jar with a piece of paper
with the name of the prosecutor.”
“What’s the worst case scenario?” asked Lizette.
“You lose a few bucks.
It’s not like you lose your dignity.”
“Lei e l’amore della mia vita.” said Jack in busted Italian.
“Ma lei non mi ama più.”
“Cosa posso fare?”
“Speak English.” said Juan.
“No se puedo.” said Jack, with a pout and slight slur.
“What’s the point of all this?” asked Juan.
“I don’t know, I’m trying to milk it for everything I can.”
“How’s that working out for you?” asked Juan.
“Not well” said Jack after a long pause.
“So stop with all the drama queen bullshit.”
“You’re right, fuck her.”
“Abbastanza.” said Juan.
“Si” said Jack with a smile.
The wet ground
around the chicory.
Fading lavender blue,
hanging on for dear life.
The rain knocked a pile of oranges
off the tree.
Bringing a slight citrus memory.
A kind of melancholy,
after they fell.
You could inhale it in the air.
Jack remembered skinny dipping,
and jumping through the green water
into her laughter, muffled now with the years.
But like the smell released
by the moisture,
that moment is freed,
to come alive again,
wet and welcoming.
It hasn’t rained here for months.
He hoped the storm would linger
just for a day or two.
Jack’s mother, Ruth, called.
“Why are your kids so short?” she asked.
“What do you mean?”
“My brother, James, was tall,
I’m tall, you’re tall…you’re kids are midgets.”
“That’s a terrible thing to say.” replied Jack.
“We have the tall genes on this side of the family.”
“I guess the short genes are more dominant.”
“You need to disown them.”
“Cut them out of the will.” said Ruth.
“Because they’re short?”, he asked.
“…Not just because they’re short.
They’re also disrespectful.
It’s their upbringing.”
“Alright, that’s enough..” said Jack, chuckling.
“Go back to your lair.”
There they were.
Just letting their voices be heard.
They’re all women.
Women with ideas and concerns.
Women with a strategy.
These women, they’re onto something.
I want to serve them,
But I’m imperfect.
I’ll go to the end of the earth,
I thought about it.
You get one life,
Whose cause are you gonna trumpet?
I believe in them.