Catherine Blau­velt

The Iowa Review - - FRONT PAGE - Rob schlegel

Me and Barysh­nikov get high And wreck the house. I throw stemware Into win­dows. He stabs a hole Into the David Salle over the man­tle. Some­thing peppy from Kreisler Car­ries us from one room to the next.

Grip­ping the crown mold­ing Over the bed­room door, Misha ex­e­cutes The per­fect pull-up. “What,” He says, “I blame for ev­ery fuck ups In my life my par­ents?” The cast Of his shoul­der. The an­gle of his jaw!

Even the splay of his fin­gers! There is sim­ply more to see in him Than any other! He strikes the floor With Pushkin’s cane, and up Springs fresh wa­ter! I’m hold­ing A bag of gi­ant bet­tas I’ll never be

When Misha’s wife re­turns ear­lier Than ex­pected. Misha looks ru­ined Over a bowl of an­tique mar­bles, A bloody tooth in his lap. I sneak Into the tub, hop­ing the bet­tas Mel­low my crash. The wa­ter cools,

Meet­ing me in­ter­nally. I imag­ine Misha in bed, mov­ing in on his Wife, his wife push­ing back Be­cause she’s pissed. Two or three Bet­tas fin past my legs. De­lighted With the night ex­actly as the night

Un­folded, I’m just this side Of gone, which is to say, right here, In­side this body that will carry Me into sleep, where I’ll find Misha wait­ing for me at the gar­den Ta­ble, white with wine and rose.

Newspapers in English

Newspapers from USA

© PressReader. All rights reserved.