Exhume your heart. Put the bleeding thing
inside a Ziploc, inside the freezer.
Pocket your wedding band and drive
to the nearest bar. Have a drink,
Have another. Make conversation
with the woman with fishnet stockings
mapping the topography of her legs.
Be charming. Say A blind man
could fall in love with your eyes.
Say I want to memorize the alphabet
of your body. Have
one more drink
at her apartment. Compliment her
on the décor, the zebra-striped couch,
the lava lamp in the corner of her bedroom
juggling its organs in slow-motion.
Kiss. Unclasp her bra, unloosen your belt,
varnish her skin with your tongue.
Do what you came there to do.
Get dressed, go home, pretend nothing
happened. When your wife finds it
in the freezer the morning after,
when she asks What is this? Say Dinner.
Let it thaw all day on the kitchen counter.
Listen to it shushing on the grill.
David
Hernandez
Always
Danger
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