Kryptonite
Camille
contemplates her boy toy.
He
sucks medical grade marijuana
from
a brand new inhaler.
Later,
he nods off, snoring,
spills
warm beer on her sofa.
This
is not what she had in mind
when
she took a young lover.
She
notices over-exposure
has
diminished his luster.
Samson,
now shorn, sleeps till noon,
anesthetized
by vodka and oxycodone.
Superman
has reverted to
a
forgettable Clark Kent who
prefers
unemployment, being in coma.
Camille
misses her man of steel,
the
one capable of leaping tall buildings,
stopping
locomotives, quenching her fire.
Previously
published in Trajectory, Spring 2013,
Issue 6
The
1970’s unlocked doors:
grew
a backbone,
tossed
the apron,
rediscovered
my brain cells.
Liberation
= free love,
no
bra or husband.
Worked
full time,
had
my own car and apartment.
Ignored
rules, assumptions.
Did
as I pleased:
smoked
Lebanese pollen hash,
ran
marathons, pierced
body
parts, pumped iron.
Hung
out in gay bars with
my
ex-brother-in-law.
Was
the belle of the ball:
drank
for free,
danced
all night long
with
affectionate bears
and muscular women.
Limbo
In
separate bedrooms
on
mutually celibate mattresses,
they
wonder where it went wrong.
She
is in perpetual motion:
dreaming,
discovering, creating,
up
before dawn.
He,
on the other hand,
sleeps
until noon, wakes hung over,
suffers
migraines, hypertension
a
churning ulcer, never feels good.
She
is a woman with a passion
for
books, photography, garden,
loves
being outside.
He
prefers late night games
with
blood, violence and explosions,
vodka
martinis with
a
chaser of various drugs.
Neither
remembers
what
convinced them
to
get married in the first place,
especially
now it has fallen apart.
Their
relationship is legal fiction,
an
equitable division of expenses,
occasional
hour of civil
and
unthreatening conversation.
After,
they politely retreat
to
their independent corners,
unconnected
lives,
know
it just can’t go on.
Brief bio:
Jennifer Lagier encourages canine anarchy in Carmel, CA and would do the same for snakes, dead or alive.
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