Willoughby (4)

Jennifer Willoughby

What Can’t Be Fixed by Envy

A waltz in Minneapolis, going home.
Moisture, fishtail, piston froze.

Daylight sags into the carpet while I try
mustering success out of high heels and music.
My chance to flounce away feels cold.

Better to whip my home into motion,
tongue stuck in the classic pose.

Who could gather all the lavish glances
ripped and stitched from passing eyes?

Bridal shyness wrestles with a cordite bloom.
Old habits: kissing, panic, copper cocktails.
A cruel room built in me grows.

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