Saint Monica Burns It Down
by Mary Biddinger
(published in Valparaiso Poetry Review)
It wasn’t her house, but she would strip
it of its bricks if she could, imagining
all of the hair and sesame oil and lye
inside after she had finished. Rooms
where he slipped from pilled flannel
sheets to creep back into her window
with a warm Budweiser in each pocket,
as if he’d never even left. His two terriers
sputtering like motorbike engines through
the night, quiet in his absence, holed up
in ruts beneath the shed. She heard his
feet on the mulch outside, reflections
of his white undershirt illuminating
the window frame. He did not know
there were glass shavings on the ledge,
seeds from the Habanero she coaxed into
unimaginable lengths and heat. When he
landed in the holly bushes he was blind.
Across town, the other woman sipped
cordial by the light of a gas stove.
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