by Laryssa Wirstiuk

Mrs. Jacobi

You always notice the circumference

of my pupils, how black pushes blue.


Anyone might think I’m high, but you

equate dilation with arousal, obvious


symptom more present than wetness.

If I want to amaze a man, I place him


between my face and a bare window

and make him watch a Bergman film


like Scenes from a Marriage, at least

the one: Mrs. Jacobi visits Marianne.


The former is requesting a divorce

from her husband of twenty years


simply because “there’s no love

in our marriage.” How big are they?


My pupils, I mean. I’m thinking about

Mrs. Jacobi’s palms pressing against


the surface of a table, her senses “thin

and dry.” She’s losing not only her touch


but sight and hearing too. It’s all failing.

You’re lucky the dark evening matches


the tone of the shadowy bar. I’m known

to scream in transition, my eyes opening


within no lids and swelling from the need

to burn sight through your glowing hide.

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