John Biscello

She turned, obliquely,

to reframe her perspective—

Maybe one last chance?

#40 from Untitled Film Poems

Image by Cindy Sherman

A getaway,

he had reasoned brightly,

it will be good for us,

give us a chance to reconnect.

Why did everything he said

always sound perfectly rehearsed,

a conviction born of rote directive?

Was it the way he spoke,

the way she listened,

a tense combination of both?

Yes,

she had heard herself softly mimicking,

it could be good for us,

and later, at the cabin,

she found herself wondering

if compliance was the same as lying,

or simply a natural extension

of the fiction

which their lives had agreed upon

as a matter of necessary course.

#37 from Untitled Film Poems

Image by Cindy Sherman

It had been a long hard winter.

Discontent

brewed and bubbled

like witches tits

in a seething cauldron.

She had decided

once and for all

to fuck spring

right between the eyes

with the last of her husband’s

whittled pride.

#35 from Untitled Film Poems

Image by Cindy Sherman