Spring

The muscle pulsing in the back of a man’s shoulder as his finger drums the tabletop
and the lipstick mark of a nipple through his white shirt are none of my business.

Back home, the ugly irises button up like Victorian ladies with Gibson hairdos,
magnolias put on their waxy blush, and mowers break wild onions in the ditch.

I wish I knew what your wife looks like so I could imagine her getting fat.
There. After all the awful thoughts I forced you to, we can start to call it even.

The first thing I reach for’s never the thing I need. I dump the whole jewelry box
into my lap: acid green glass, sparks of marcasite, buffed knots of pearl.

—STEFANIE WORTMAN