—EVEN THE SIMPLE THINGS BECOME ROUGH

                                My Wife Dated a Serial Killer

 

          And won’t let me forget it, says he was suave and smelled like patchouli, says the news never mentions that, or how he loved the zoo, everything exotic and intoxicating, koalas and red pandas, a capybara, stirring in him some unknowable urge potent enough that he’d excuse himself, though later that night, enduring a migraine, he’d write the most beautiful sonnets, describing my wife as a peach, overwhelming and juicy, left untouched, hanging from a forbidden tree whose only task was to produce fruit after fruit, a plethora of seductive flavors and opportunities.