Like a broken Lazarus, Lucille walked in the front door smelling like resurrection. Her lips, like a
misplaced ornament, pouted away the subtle curves that made refinement a baron’s obligation.
Tonight, she danced with men who knew how to touch her into submission, how to finger her
hair so as to make her writhe like a fire whose appendages tear at the virgin firmament. What does
marriage mean to a woman who knows she’s the object of poetry?
Tonight she will ask him to rethink Saturday wine and television reruns. Tonight she will force an
ultimatum: Make her believe that he, with his brawny fingers and frail arms, can bring to life the Venus
hidden in her breasts, or she will spend every night in the arms of someone who knows how make her
forget she is mortal.
Tonight he will remember a n age before sex. A moment when he would not have to fight the erection
which told him “this is what it means to be a man.” Tonight he will resign himself to mass and the taking
of the of the Eucharist. He will consume a flesh uncorrupted by Monday morning quickies. He will finally
visit that aunt his mother always told him could use some company.
Tonight they will die, only to be born again.