The Arc of Oops
lives fly head over heels in domestic slips.
schools have been established to train
everybody knows from birth how to walk
put themselves in harms way for the thrill
business begins with clergy
the wresting mats on an island
pregnant. Mom and pop enter
given away, the divesting of shares
notice the mirror in the store
a shovel and apologetic smile,
a suit with matching pockets
mass won the attention of the public,
scene for the audience. Over perks
a bedroom, a wallet unfolds and a purse
masturbate, ole. From opposite suburban
check. The smooth finger and calloused
a house, the Wells Fargo money sack
with their feet up on
genesis of women’s words
fallen out of them hang
testosterone. Mary Jane,
Alarmed and kidnapped, a tall, dark, and handsome morning gawks, entranced by the young naked woman splashing and spraying waters and flowers among porcelains. She turned the day on to her with brushes, and blushes and shadows and her. Stepping out from among tubs and sinks and soaps to the room of curtains and dress, her glistening body’s heat and the air joined forces to dry her.
With her wardrobe hanging pressed in recesses or folded in bureau she snatches the black panties from their drawer and with each foot arched like dolphin entering water, plunged them into the French cuts. Pulling the lace of satin mesh until the bikini caressed the muff of her vulva and Lycra bottom held her cheeks as though it was two hands, she then let the elastic waist band snap against her flesh she wore stretched over her hips. Odysseus’ Circe of the work day snapped up the loops of a matching brassiere, threaded her arms, and caught the two pad-less B-cups beneath her breasts and with arms akimbo behind her back wrestled with herself using elastic material and hooks and eyes in a game of expectation. When arms fell to her side satisfied and the peaks of perky bosoms threatened to pierce the thin shields of satin, she turned sideways and with a sigh looked at herself in the wall’s reflecting pool. From the closet in fever, the impassioned pursuer of suits slipped into a silk blouse and pushed each bone nipple through its slit, top to bottom and with her own hands caressed the worm’s work that gave up at the kisses of hidden flesh that pecked and dropped creases to her waist. Her giving body to the color of her short-sleeved bodice demanded the colored pattern of the skirt. The Joan of abs stepped into the fray of linings, seams, hems and pulled to meet, mate, and overlap her top at the tight pannier’s waist. Again, akimbo she pinned herself over hook, eye, and zipper until she had her way with them. A park’s lunchtime tan was all the nylon hosiery or sheer netting her legs needed today to flash their dominion over men. At the bottom of the tiny room of her hangers that hold ghost of her past and future, her high heels stood ready to stand between her confident feet and the hard day ahead. One by one she kicked them on. A last look in the now magic mirror revealed the cutlass curves of desire. She strode to the door fresh but sassy.
After the nuisance elbows and groping of public transportation, the dominatrix entered the long erected building. She rose to the upper floors. From the first step into the punch clock coliseum to the last stride of the workday from her control center she sacked. The Have a good day of the many male sirens tore at their own clothes and molested their daydreams in men’s rooms, cold bare apartments.
Rich Murphy's poems have appeared in numerous journals in Canada, English, Ireland, and Australia, and in national periodicals such as Poetry, Grand Street, and Rolling Stone, and in recent issues of Intertia, Confrontation, ForPoetry, Barrelhouse, Voltaire's Inkwell, and New Delta Review. His essay, “McLuhan's Warning, Frye's Strategy, Emerson's Dream,” will be published in the Journal of the Assembly for Expanded Perspectives on Learning.
2006, Rich Murphy. This work is protected under the U.S.