Fantastic Lovers. By Nancy Gauquier.
He says she could be his ideal woman,
if only
her teeth were straighter,
her hair longer,
she wore make-up,
she was a better housekeeper,
a decent cook,
a little more passive in bed,
a little more active in bed,
(if only
she could discern
which and when)
if only
she could move through
his most avid wet dreams,
pushing aside his passive Marilyn,
his active Madonna,
and prevent him from waking
to face the actuality
of aging flesh,
if only
she could afford
a few face lifts,
a mid-drift tuck,
firmer breasts,
a lobotomy,
if only
she could stop writing
those embarrassing poems,
if only
she could forgive
an occasional digression,
if only
he could order her
like pizza
on nights when he doesn’t
want to go out,
if only
she could sit contently
while he drinks his six-pack
and belches his way to numbness,
without a single glance,
if only
she didn’t leap out of doorways
and dance about the house
like someone entranced
by her own fantasies,
if only
she were someone else,
if only
he were.
*
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