April 15, 2020KR OnlinePoetry

The Garden Party

What will I take with me
wrapped in napkins in my handbag
when I die?
A momento,
coins for the passage,

an extra middle finger just in case.

How should I have dressed
so other women note me
among the crowd? Their nods a potion
of approval and jealousy.

I watch drinks trays bob
as jellyfish might,
avoiding rocks and reef mostly
by luck.

And, as luck
might have it, a man approaches.
His face gently puffed
up by hot air, smile
dried cement, his desire a thing
manifest between the flowerbeds.

Of course, I giggle

like a fawn, let myself be led
into the maze’s dark knot and grazed upon.

Once there, I unhook the seducer’s top buttons
to check his head is held on
by more than mere sinew and spite,

and, when it isn’t,

trip back along the gold string
and across the lawn,
over croquet bridges sprung
like snares,
sink—heel first—into the soil,
assuring the watchers I’m absolutely fine
the whole way down.