I wish I was an anti-type, but, I’m dull, I’m over
hyped. Today,
I am a kite that’s landed
in a ditch. About last night…Last night I was a trite
ex-lover, desperate for the bait
& switch, & onto every trick, & every trick
could sing! & in your voice. Last night
I sucked down whiskeys
with an ex, (he was never my first
choice) he showed me ‘round
his place, his girl was out of town. I’ve never glimpsed
her face, but last night I saw her
shoes—fifty, sixty
pairs, (I tripped on her pink panties
on the stairs) zebra stripes & strappy
gold, lucite like bold crystal, diamond studded
ankle clasps. I used to be
that girl. At least, I tried. Charcoal eyed
& used, voice a husky rasp, cigarette
in hand. I was a ruse, a one-night stand that lingered
for three years, stiletto clad day
tripper, I plucked men like souvenirs. Did that girl
picture me? Sometimes I try to reinvent her still, some nights
she comes to call, she still exists: she ran one finger down
my ex’s pulsing wrist, she winked out from the skinny
lengthwise mirror in that fitting room’s hot stall—that fitting
room, that afternoon, the night that changed
it all. Go back with me, let’s stand in that
department store—white walls & silver
hooks. Alone, hung over from the night
before (some Irish bar, the ex, he kissed me open
mouthed when he wished me good-night) stark
naked but for hot pink cotton briefs—the flaws,
the flaws! The hips that jut, the little gut, their murder
of clean lines, that brown spot like a penny
on my flank. Anyway, I could meander, maybe hiss
to you the story of the swank
hotel in London, (she snuck off with the night
clerk to an empty suite worth each of its four stars, & what
about the time behind the hostel’s front
desk, off the Champ de Mars) but no. Follow me,
let’s slip that weightless
sheath straight up & over my dark head (ignore the bead
of salty sweat that creeps between my braless
tiny breasts, ignore the doe-eyed dread) now I’m another
girl. The one you love to hate. She’s out too late.
Gold tasseled earrings brushing her bare
shoulders, smoky eyes that smolder, she just
eye fucked your boyfriend from across the bar, You know
she’d probably go down on him in the backseat
of the car, I’ve heard that, or maybe he was driving,
tequila bottle clamped between his knees, I heard
she aims to please…The dress fit like a glove. I slipped it off
& thought about my husband. Then I thought
about my love—as distant as a hero
in the wars (that night, I’d fuck my best friend’s
younger brother on her childhood bedroom floor, kiss him
quickly when he dropped me at my door, crawl
into my bed & clutch my husband while he snored) I thought
I am Penelope, weaving poems while I wait,
spinning idle lines about my mother, but all I see
is your face at the gate…
My ex puts on some
vinyl, (60s soul) we clink our drinks, I wish
he was another, I don’t know what he thinks, I’ve been
loving you too long… his hand is on my wrist, I take
it back. I head home unkissed—outside, the world
is laid with bridal white, a blizzard
whirls. I want to be (you think
I am) that girl.
Emily Van Duyne lives in New Jersey with her family. She teaches writing and gender studies at Stockton University, where she was recently tenured and promoted. Her work has appeared widely in journals and magazines, including Harvard Review, Profession: The Online Journal of the Modern Language Association, Literary Hub, the Chronicle of Higher Education, The Rumpus, and many other places. Her book, LOVING SYLVIA PLATH, is forthcoming with W.W. Norton & Co. She is a 2021 Fulbright Fellow in Writing, and represented by Beth Vesel, of the Beth Vesel Literary Agency.
