Transparent Words - Poetry

WHEN I MARRIED HER,

 

               I married class.

She brought me into her world-wide network,

it was like a dowry.

        She stays in touch with every friend she’s ever made –

you know how it goes –

                                                artists, singers, old lovers, even two ex-husbands.

 

Those guys would visit now and then,

just to be near her.

I was always gracious to them – she’d expect nothing less –

but inside, I crowed:

“Sucker! She’s in my bed now.”

 

This should have a happy ending.  It doesn’t. We got divorced. 

I know, I know,

I should have seen it coming. I was suffocating her, she said. She needed space, she said.

 

What can I say? I guess my jealousy showed.

 

When she went on tour I’d want to know who she saw, I wanted to know who she spoke to.

Her late night calls from hotel rooms all over the world

made me frantic.

 

Every time she’d call when I was out I’d come home and listen to the answering machine;

I kept her voice, playing it over and over.

Such a lovely husky voice, like

Nina Simone.

 

Okay, so, hhmm, well –

 

So, recently I visited her on one of my business trips to Africa.

She’s living happily in some village with her new man, he’s an anthropologist; they don’t have a post office or even a phone, and you know what? she’s amazing, organizing the native women into a choir, transcribing their songs, she greeted me like the good old friend she expects me to be.  I was – gracious.

In truth, I was just thrilled to hear her voice again.

 

Later, back at the hotel, I vomited.

 

Why are you looking at me like that?

You don’t believe me.

You know me too well, don’t you.

I’m not so large of heart.

The village, the singing – 

I made it all up.  Except the part about vomiting.

 

Look, she asked me for a divorce, then

she went off on another damn trip.

So before she came back to pack,

I prepared the basement.  A vault.

 

Sound proofed it.  A dumbwaiter.  Fixed up the bathroom.  Fitted it out with books,

an exercycle, TV, VCR, stereo, some plants, a UV lamp even.  A typewriter.

 

I give her whatever she needs, whatever she wants.  No telephone. 

 

Had to put the dog down though. You understand.

 

Now I send down the best gourmet take-out food every day.

 

I don’t see her, I don’t touch her, so help me,

any note she sends up

I don’t even answer it.  Her perfume

clings to everything.

 

I’ve hidden a microphone in the VCR.  I can hear her singing.  Blues, mostly.

Sometimes at night, I listen to her breathing.