More Vulva Than Obelisk
At the cemetery, I take back
what I said last time. Instead,
make my bone-marker
a vulva. How we come in is how
we are held when we leave.
Doesn’t have to be exact, but
let it give more vulva than obelisk.
I’m sick of all these skyward dicks.
At my spot, engrave Mother on a fold.
It’s not enough for me and we know that, but
the starkness has humor, and anyway, life
isn’t contained entirely
in bone-markers we leave behind.
Tell me about it
later, when my stone vulva
has been placed on a pedestal
and time slowly greens
it with moss.
Mildew
I’ve started telling my husband he smells
like mildew. To be fair, he has started
smelling more like mildew. On the couch, I lean in
for a sniff. Mildew. I sniff his shoulder,
his waist, his torso. Mildew, all of him.
When he comes home, I circle him,
searching for moss. Something
that will grow in dank conditions.
I would welcome
a bright green moss covering his skin
because I love to be right.
I look for fungus on his yellowed toes, on his waistband
underneath his belt where the leather has rubbed
the denim shiny. I sniff at his underwear, on the lookout
for rot in that moisture.
After he showers, I don’t let him get dressed. I think
maybe it’s the clothes that smell. His skin is
fresh and red from the hot shower. Rivulets of water
run down his back. I am greedy
about this lack of smell. I want more emptiness
for my senses. I take money from his wallet while he naps.
Me? I couldn’t live with me.
Emily Dressler lives in Northeast Ohio. She works as a proofreader at a global advertising agency. Her fiction has appeared recently in Villain Era, The Citron Review, Angel City Review, and Literary Garage. Her poetry is forthcoming in Does it Have Pockets? Her favorite revenge story is how Kim Gordon is consistently and effortlessly cooler than Thurston Moore, but the ultimate revenge is that Kim Gordon is too cool to care.
