it is thus that she finds her aria
what is she thinking
as she unbuttons her blouse
in the photo booth loosens her bra
rouges her nipples with lipstick
leans into the black window
left breast bared for the picture
as she quickly buttons
the last three flashes capturing
the top of her head
she smokes a cigarette waiting
for the photos to drop
wet and viscous down the metal chute
Things that are bound and not bound, A Quiz
Another darling dog has died.
Yesterday you combed its blonde curls,
carried it to tea in a pill box, restless
daughters belly-slamming down a hill
in the snow, unstrapped after a night
in which they became famous.
A drunk man on a motorcycle skidded
into a group of citizens standing on the seawall.
They were pointing at the sky, careless
with their betrayals, jumpers awash with blood,
ambulance lights, festive hospital greens and reds.
There is a fur dimension. You are caught there,
licking your wife's simpering teat.
The gauntlet is large and wet inside the rings.
Your unhappiness pleases me.
Rebecca Loudon lives and writes in Seattle. She is the author of two collections of poetry, Tarantella and the forthcoming Radish King (Ravenna Press), and a chapbook, Navigate — Amelia Earhart's Letters Home (No Tell Books.) She has work forthcoming in Birmingham Poetry Review, Terminus, TYPO, Cranky and Elixir.