by Claire Scott
I ask him if he heard the banshees last night
baying at the moon, a sure sign of impending disaster
my husband is slicing radishes with a spoon
he looks up but says nothing
I notice there is a padlock on the knife drawer
I tell him I saw man strolling down St. James Street
wearing jeans and a crown of thorns
he mumbles about being out of olive oil
and uses a fork to cut the tomatoes
I see there is no wine on the shelf
no bottles of Cabernet to unfray my nerves
no Xanax in the bathroom cabinet
to keep my hair from falling out in clumps
and clogging the sink beyond the reach of Drano
I want to drive to heaven and join Jesus
sipping sacred wine and nibbling wafers
while lying in heavenly hammocks
I want to live in one of the many mansions
where there won’t be howling hyenas
in the hall closet or sharks hidden
under the bubbles in the bath tub
but my car keys aren’t in my purse
I hear sirens, see the whip of red
on the driveway
Claire Scott is an award winning poet who has received multiple Pushcart Prize nominations. Her work has appeared in the Atlanta Review, Bellevue Literary Review, New Ohio Review, Enizagam and Healing Muse among others. Claire is the author of Waiting to be Called and Until I Couldn’t.
Hawaii Pacific Review 