At least we've got Sunday mornings to ourselves,
No cries of the train.
We skip church again;
Watch rain because breakfast is burned.
We flip on jazz and open windows
Like half-full glasses.
I count beats, then measure a nap by the screen door.
You practice silhouettes on slow tiptoes
Over the cymbal, octaves of love;
The raw beauty my eyes cannot contain.
The Explanation was Spiked Frosting
When my wife returns home from
The bridal shower drunk and vomiting,
Blotchy patterns like constellations across
Her chest, and repeats there was no alcohol—
Not even mimosas so early in the morning,
I dial up the hotel and ask what happened.
The collection of pills a rapist
Or deviant could conceal under their coats,
I demand an explanation for the effects.
Interrogating the maids, ransacking lockers,
The manager finally finds an empty bottle
Of cheap bourbon and a half-full flask
Of grain alcohol. Dialing me again,
He recounts her story—bored with
The usual, impending I do's, she did a
Don't and drizzled the liquors inside
The frosting before sneaking into the
Kitchen and spreading it on delicately,
Watching it soak through the fondant,
The decorations, into the moist cake;
And then helped carry it out on a platter,
Wearing the prettiest smile she had.
Jeffrey Warzecha has had recent work
appear in The Connecticut Review, Rio Grande Review, Chopper
Journal and elsewhere.