After Samia

I want to be beautiful enough to ruin a marriage;
cost you tens of thousands in legal fees,
therapy for the kids, force her to pilfer you
for every vintage Fender in your filthy display case,

but the day devastates me. You call in the afternoon,
delirious with joy, sun so bright its fingers frolic
through the phone, slip between my ribs
to keep a grip on my heart.

This isn’t about you – although I like the way
you say my name; all throat and belly,
the “e” rumbling above your tongue,
not hitting your teeth – no, this is about power.

I want to wield my thighs like weapons
between your wife and your hands. I want lips
like grenades at the base of the home you built together;
sapling spruce, new granite countertops (knife in the spine)

I want a face that murders for the fun of it,
gets off because the jury thought, “poor child,”
but sun streams from my nostrils, grapples my trachea,
unhinges my jaw in a solar powered, “congratulations.”

She’s having a baby. I’m thinking of your hands
under my shirt; soft, insistent in the dark.

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Zoe Antoine-Paul was born on the Island of Saint Lucia, but now calls Brooklyn home. She likes writing about the city, the beauty in the mundane and macabre, and everyday internal turmoil. Her work has been published in Funicular Magazine, Scapegoat Review, West Trade Review where she served as a reader, and other publications. Zoe can be found on Instagram @space.junkie13.