Little Tricks
by JoSelle Vanderhooft
It was just supposed to be a little trick
like any women use:
a powder puff,
a pinch for apple cheeks
or a smear of kohl to accent hollow eyes
so he will never, never look away
and now, this tunic
steeped in roil of satyr's blood
she has long secreted with her knitting
for the advent of crow's feet and milch breasts
and the foreign musk upon his shirts
when he finds the time to stagger home
from what he swears are stables
or the gaping mouths of Hell.
Just add a little drabble of my come
there: that splotch upon your thigh will do
said dying Nessos, his porn shop eyes
still searching out her ravaged sex.
Just a little spat of swirled in my blood
then let it lie
fortnight of moonbloom roses and fermenting grapes
until the alchemy honeys like aged wine.
See, this is a satyr's magic,
all shadow and twist of constellations,
the sour sweat on a virgin after fun.
Use it, woman, as you would use your lies
now that I have pierced you,
and your stupid, hulking husband
will never have a lust
for strange arms.
It was just supposed to be a little trick
that women use when they have nothing left.
So she waited to be sure
his distractions, his headaches
each listless, sleepy kiss upon her belly
(now globe-lined with age and isthmuses of acne)
were insincere as early summer.
And one night, when the chill between them
froze the rhododendrons in mid blush
she draped the blood-dyed cloth across his arm
For strength in battle, she whispered,
hopeful as a new bride for a kiss,
yet patient as a matron when he belched
and rolled back into a sleep
of hydras, chiromachy.
But she could be patient, she remembered.
Dreary years of his dreary tasks,
dreary pounds piled on her thighs like tallow –
enduring these had schooled her well enough.
She did not think to question her love gift.
What woman thinks to question her last chance,
the promise of a husband who will love
as if age and quarrel did not matter?
Until, of course, the sun steams in the window
And the floor bubbles like a blister.
It was just supposed to be a little trick
like all wives use and use and use
just as they are used.
But as the rising day brought news of burning
--the Nessus-tunic smoking like a brazier
skin flaying back like meat beneath wild nails
her husband finally crackling in the pyre
just one long scream of poisoned desperation,
his heart a mess of boils
it was only then, her screams choked in silence
that she recalled the smile that satyr's lightless eyes,
that frozen laughter that could only mean
it was she and no one else
who had been tricked.
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