Of course, we would meet in a bar,
dark as our wombs,
the banquettes lined in wine Marquette.
Three sexy Scorpios—one golden girl,
one sloe-eyed brunette and me
showing the ashes of middle age.
It would have to be August
in a limp Boston loosening
her corsets against vapidity
and the heat. We would meet
at this watering hole,
cackling over very dry martinis
or maybe a couple vodka stingers instead.
We would watch the spills on the bar
spread like Rorschach blots.
We would all cheerfully wear our
ovaries on our sleeves and make course
jokes about male poets and their pricks.
Flirting academically with the bartender
we would order more nostrums,
crazy women swivelling gaily on barstools.
You both would be happy.
You’d swear off crucifixion by art,
decide to survive, become grandmas,
grin and flash nicotine-stained teeth,
wear cliché purple hats and scarlet lipstick
living more potently than legend or myth.
From Magma no. 27, Autumn 2003