Edna spent an hour in the bathtub.

she floats in the tub, her breasts erect, nipples islands. she feels her bladder shift, full, and press against her uterus. it is odd to hold her pee underwater. last time was ages ago because an older kid told her there was a chemical that turned pee red to catch pool pissers. she remembers being afraid of getting sucked down the drain as a child; compressed, tubular, and spat out into a world of mome wraths and scum monsters who dealt cards. now she reads a romance, watches the pages crimp under her wet touch. giggles at the thought of a wet touch. wishes for her own plastic lover, like fabio-on-the-cover. hopes for warm palms to cover her tits: submerge them in water and love.

Dead: haiku

Orson ate poisoned
chocolate chip cookie and he
almost choked to death.

Edna inhaled, deep,
blinked once: smiled, danced and whooped
boots are made to walk.

Orson spies on the neighbor in the shower

He bleats like a goat
when she takes off her
clothes, steps -- toes first --
into the mildewed tile box.

He streams like the Conodoguinet
when she lathers up under
the water's massage, hopes
she'll never realize he can see
through the sky light, thrugh
the fog, her dark layer of hair
trail like seal skin down her back,
pink roses bloom on
her cheeks and her shoulders
under the hot water.

he liquefies like burning tallow
when she opens her mouth and
it fills with water, spills over the
corners, down, over the crowns
of her breasts, converges
below her naval, drips down the drain
from a beaded curl at the vortex of
her thighs.

He hardens like brick when he
remembers that this is not his wife,
this is not his house, his skylight, his
soggy toilet paper: that he has to
return to Edna, queen of a chill
aimed at him.

Orson Likes Eggs Benedict

The way the hard-yolk-colored
hollandaise joins
the shiny canary of the soft-yolk

Pink slice of pork, tastes
vaguely copper, blood-like as the
muffin soaks it and he sucks it
off the fork at the diner.

The perfect fusion of flavors,
colors like cotton candy, like
babies. His Edna doesn't cook.
He can only be satisfied like this
away from home.

The Weekend Edna Turned Out to be Elvis

At the Casino, she glided
between islands, tossed
ones in the air. Met the hands
of a dark stranger, kissed behind
his ear on her toes. Whispered
come hold me tight, kiss
me my darling. Be mine tonight.

Tucked in her bra strap,
a wad of ones to fake-
out the dealer. She read
how in a story once. Thought
It's now or never.
In her garter, a Russian self-
loading 7.62 Handgun, no
bigger than her palm.

Thought of Orson only once, when
in the elevator, her garter slipped,
dropped the gun by the stranger's feet.
He thought it was sexy, gripped her
waist, toothed her ear, Orson hates
Blue Hawaii.

Edna's Id

Id was perfect until
she took that course
at the Community college.
Id is everything: the sticky
perimeter of morning's
mocha, Orson's
bald-spot-wink in sun,
her garter's red seam after
twenty-odd years, cellulite.

After that class, all of id
changed, moved up and
down and left her at the
bottom on her bottom,
wishing she still wanted
Orson's bottom
always cold and rough in her
hands at night, afternoon,
morning. His impotent sting,
vacant song. Id is what she
wanted. Knew she couldn't
get id back.

Edna's Brick Feet

Edna actually wears
a seven, but she buys a
nine-wide. She mashes
her archless, heavy meat-pods
into pumps and sandals,
the sides gap, reveal red rub.

At night she can smell
the day's wear like over-salted
cashews,dusts them with
Gold Bond Medicated and
remembers how grateful
she was when Orson, her
husband, was charmed y her feet.

He'd peeled her knee-highs
said her feet were
tender, womanly;
pulpy red toes, stale edges of
callous notwithstanding.
She believed him. He rubbed her
feet until she was cooked spaghetti.