Tonight's Poet Corner: Eight Minutes

Eight Minutes
by Belinda Roddie

There was something egregiously peaceful
about the chatter of ticking in the corner
of the living room, where the dust formed crop circles
on the table that preserved a mummified rose in a skull
and three never-lit candles. The piss-poor

lighting in the space gave her face
a disturbing appeal, the shadows clustered,
like cockroaches, around her nose, waiting for
an exterminator in the form of a sunbeam
to fry them out of their safe haven, their crackling
exoskeletons the only sound in a vacuum
of denial and self-inflicted hesitation.

Well, besides the second hand.

She asked me if I would like another glass
of wine, as red as the velvet around her neck,
plush lust bunched up against her chin, the pointed
beak of a falcon preparing to peck the eyes out
of unsuspecting prey. I loosened my collar,
and the stem wobbled between my fingers as
I handed her the chalice, and all at once, the rug
seemed to cave in beneath my sneakers. There's a way

to feel drunk even when you are still
sober, and that is when
you become so scared of the consequences
for your actions, you counter-productively
howl at the moon so that even the constellations
can hear your incessant worrying.

I found a way to hold back my inner loathing,
and after vanquishing the second round of pinot,
I became convinced that I could be a superhero,
wrapping my cape around the ankles of my dame,
dragging her toward my waist like a conquered fish.

She disentangled herself from my valor.
No pouring me

another dose of anti-medicinal contrast, instead
pointing toward the window, the wall clock whispering
eight minutes past, and saying,
"That is one way out. Do not tempt me
to block the door."