The greasy divorce judge rules once more
in my favor. He follows us: Corrine, Cecil, and others
to a Bohemian poets’ lunch. Insists on a plate
next to mine. Says, you must have had a difficult time
living with someone so nehomethan, so blahseblasque,
and I am angry for a moment at the sheer vocabulary
which I will have to look up later. I notice
the judge’s hair isn’t oily, only gelled, that his tone has some
kindness beneath the words’ cut, that maybe in this light
there are only twenty, thirty years between us, that in the moon
between his thumb and forefinger are prison tats
of punctuation signs. In short, there’s attraction.
Kari Fisher recently earned an MFA from Rainer Writing Workshop (Pacific Lutheran University) and holds an MA in English from Southern Illinois University at Carbondale. She and her three children, two dogs, and one cat live in the Twin Cities.