Stuck in the Middle with You
Larry is watching the scene with the duct tape
and razor from “Reservoir Dogs,”
grinning and eating pistachios.
I have to look away.
It’s the wrong moment for “Lucky,”
the wrong moment for any poem
I might read him, though the calculated,
casual laceration on the screen
is a sort of aria of American violence,
part of our national fabric, like football
and invasion and prizefights
and men have an appetite for it
just as women love the pinch
and pitch of stilettos,
the beauty and the pain
part of one package.
Because I have my own
I turn and wait for another moment,
when my husband’s eyes aren’t alight
with animal delight
and he is open to a more subtle beauty,
as he so often is,
as both of us so often are,
as we falter together
along the catwalk of consciousness.