By Cat Weaver
women, measuring their envy in eyelashes
back when women hated each other enough to say so
the pain the beauties caused with a humble arsenal of cheek bones and laughter
far away now
a privilege —sexual competition
Ingrid sat cross-legged on her bed with Eve in her lap. She was thinking about her days in graduate school again. Sex. How it fueled so much of their social life back then.
trying to trick us
wombs and all those useless men
Bill who lectured Lisa — seemed like hours
I sat on my mattress— just like this —in my room and listened to his droning —awful
when she had tired of him
complained he had holes in his tighty whities
as though that sort of thing that made a difference
shabby when a new interest…
Eve purred louder, interrupting Ingrid’s disgust, ribs hinging up and down: pure joy.
memories, like a finger down the throat
Oh —that too
no one thin enough Dylana watching me make a sandwich, suggesting a slice of apple
watched me eat it
for love of her tiny arms
my god her tiny arms
jealous hungry Rob
throwing up ‘round back behind the club with its booming music and lines of coke in the bathroom
Rob in so much pain that he shed it like a virus
Ingrid looked out the window which faced the courtyard. Someone had pissed near the garbage cans, so she couldn’t open it to let the summer air inside. Reluctant to move, she cast her eyes around the small room she rented in a tiny apartment half-buried underground.
what a MA will get you
half a headache half an apartment half paid bills
half a fucking bed
“A roommate who smells like chips,” she said aloud, picking Eve off her lap, laying her back down on the bed.
what in hell were we all so goddam giddy about?
bodies young bodies doing body things
failing to replicate
In the kitchen, where Ingrid put on some tea, cockroaches skitteled away from the packages.