My client told me
what her husband said to her
three years ago
very loudly
with people around
in the Nashville airport
on the way to Aruba
for their honeymoon.
I don’t know why she got on the plane,
handed him the room key, or undressed
in the bathroom with the anticipation
of one facing the gallows.
She doesn’t remember agreeing
to the move to Tennessee, to
selling her stock options, or passing
babies through her womb while
he passed through other ones.
She doesn’t know why she said yes
to buying the house, though Westhaven
was certainly THE neighborhood at the moment,
and the hardwoods in the spacious foyer
made her think of an oak pond and the
jeweled chandelier above an
upside down fountain
She can’t make sense of saying yes
to any house, even this utopic one zoned for
the best schools, with resort-like amenities
that inflame envy in all guests, who
first marvel at the decorated interior straight out
of the pages of Southern Living, and who comment
on the exterior brick façade of a perfect marriage.
The landscaping—they have a guy for that. Pool
maintenance, a guy for that too. Protection when
Robert pulls a kitchen knife from its sleeve
in the mahogany block
that rests with great poise
on the granite-top island?
She doesn’t have a guy for that.
--rLp--
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