Lisa Mecham writes a little bit of everything. Her work has appeared in The Rumpus, Barrelhouse Online and Juked, among other publications. A Midwesterner at heart, Lisa lives in Los Angeles with her two daughters.
There’s No Way to Arrange It
without seeing each other
so request the two-top by the window.
Just a light embrace when she arrives,
shaking her umbrella, trying to catch
your eye. As you sit, decline the bread.
Fingers trace the glass rim, circle
the wedding band in your pocket, all around
her open mouth, butter so soft
it spoils when you reach across the table.
Swallow the café's din, the brim
of infinity, down it with silence.
Deliver the ending.
She'll look away.
In the restroom mirror see you,
your wife, thin mouth skin turned down,
your son, fingernail moons unrisen.
Don't think of her, out there.
Her legs pressed, the dark in between
and what it absorbs.
There are boundaries to the universe.
When gravity pulls you back
she will be gone.
Just a greasy streak across the table.
The umbrella, slack on the floor.
Anger, pleasure, sorrow, fear all seeded
in the brain, in the amygdala
which in Latin means almond.
Wild ones, bitter, toxic
and sweet ones, domesticated, docile.
How we eat them by handfuls.
Deadly and desirable, all at once
like a clown crying a moon eclipsing a man
hanging. And my husband
who won me with wit,
calling from a bed in the hotel.
Exiled since the hospital.
Weeping, begging, then
Dread creeping across the line.
My neurons. I feel them, all over.
They want out.