It’s the way Marilyn’s mouth moves;
upper lip swabbing her teeth,
a constant undulation.
Her long breasts slope,
loose against the white blouse,
its little darts tucked
for women without breasts.
Margaret unravels the fringe
on her bedspread one braid at a time,
fanning the frizzed yarn.
In a year she has made it nearly half
way around. She sips port from a child’s
plastic cup, hair a brown scrub.
All that Nevada dust presses
into her clothes, pushing, insisting.
Clark Gable’s paunch sloops
under his cowboy shirt, new jeans
pulled up to his chest. Eli Wallach
pumps his fat, clumsy legs against
Marilyn’s ass. Margaret pours
another cup of port as they suck
at the blonde’s mouth, lift her
off the porch, their white arms
soft as bread.
The mustangs kick and jerk
at Margaret’s ribs. Hooves,
sharp blades, pummel her heart.
She curls fists against stomach,
dry hair wisping as she leans
toward the floor to smooth
the bedspread with her hands.