m c boyes
The Couch
She could have burned
it. A Great conflagration
against the seed
spilled onto the legs
of the slim girl
beneath him. And from the girl
onto the paisley
cushion below.
She knew all
about this—the smallest
detail. Who was under
whom. And when. And how
many times.
About the surprising
constellation
of pimples on the back
of the girl’s long, smooth
neck. About the smell
like fresh cut hay
and old rainwater.
But is was too titanic,
this couch lurking
in their wooden
house where two small
children lie sleeping
beneath an open window
where the long white
curtains fluttered
above them
like breathing.
Where everything
was flammable.
Who has not been in
this house? Who has not heard
the soundtrack? A few minor
chords spiraling lightly
around themselves, while
she rifles through the old
letters and drinks
tequila straight from
the bottle or sobs and makes a cup
of tea or scours
the kitchen floor, one
square of terra cotta
tile at a time.
We have seen the one
where she lassoed
the couch and dragged
it like a recalcitrant
animal toward the door.
The goal—the street
and the #18 bus. A grand
ending, her sitting
on the couch
in the middle of a city
street at 4:00 a.m. Holding
a glass of white wine
into which she has dropped
her wedding ring.
A grand ending—
the ring glinting
from the bottom of the cup.
But city doors are not
that wide and the ending makes
no room for the sleeping
children and health insurance
payments, and grocery lists and
who likes mustard and who
does not. So he put
it back in the living
room and promised
to never ever never. Promised
to take the tests
for safety. Promised
to love them all
like never before.
Still, the ghost
of the smell. The phantom
of the back of the girl’s
neck rising up
whenever she sat down
to watch cartoons
with the kids.
And, so later, when no one talked
about the couch anymore, when
she went to the hospital, he hired
some men to take
the couch away and replaced
it with a sleek black thing
no one could sink into.
In her sterilized room
he kept his secret for her
return. He kissed her and told her
to come back to him,
to come back whole.
Instead, she had the surgeons
make the cut where
they found her tubes—
small cords, really. And it
was there, they tied the knot.
