5 March 2007 | Vol. 7, No. 1

My Husband Is Out of Town

by NANCY DEVINE

Some treasure in pining;

we could

warm the belled belly of a snifter

so it can be legs for brandy,

a glass gourd of fire catching sugar in its teeth;

lose the line between a woman's thigh

and her lover's, a border countries forgave

in a new treaty their saints drafted;

string a necklace of days and wear it with

the aplomb of a neophyte angel;

comb the word "mystique" into

our hair, listening as letters coat each strand;

treasure our mouths

not just for gold under our tongues

but for silly raptures they accidentally exclaim:

Smelling of cumin

from no shower, so much splitting

wood, you'll

come home.