The produce man stacks eggplant, heavy
papaya, watches her in the mirror,
knows how she could rise like cream
float above the shelves and aisles.
He reaches to tether her but she drifts
into the aisles, her mouth opening
and closing. She scoops from the candy bin–
gathers thick-necked root beer bottles
until her cart won't swivel. A butcher counts
roasts as she passes. An old man grinding coffee
stares down her hard nipples until she pinks.
She pays at the checkout counter,
slick aubergine hidden between her thighs,
crimson lipstick burrowed into her bra.
Marguerite at
the Beach
Marguerite wades the tide,
sways fat bellied for turnstones
rattling cut-cut-cut in the surf,
and her elbows ebb and push,
leis of byssus and white ginger
twisted at her wrists.
Her thighs hip to beach
like boulders sheeting spray.
Heels strike sand, tan
sand — the sea grabs her ankles,
darkens the shore, hisses Melusine Melusine Melusine.
She flexes bright curves
of breast-edged cotton,
fears a salt house, ringed cormorants,
grit under her tongue.
Fat Marguerite crouches
before the open door
where desire pricks
and plucks out olives, pickles, secret
crackers hidden in a bottom drawer.
She laps soft ice cream from the tin.
Marguerite stands afront her mirror,
terraced pink and dimpled skin,
holds a magazine cover like a mask,
peers through the model's eyes—
slips glossy on, coils her lank hair,
licks the flat-faced Glamour pressed to her lips,
rips the cover into strips
the way thighs chafe
under sheets on summer nights,
bites the paper and swallows.
