Midas’ Wife

by Grace O’Connell

The blue vein ripples over bones, back of your hand,
those four straight chicken claws in your skin

I want to peel it off, worm off rainy sidewalk, to grip it
fat and hot in my tightened hand, pulsing

Watch it move, would it wriggle or flail? Perhaps smoother:
a charmed snake, a scrap bit of silk, streaming

wet off the edge of the table, where you lean, getting leaner
saying more, while the beautiful

part of you throbs dully, disappears into wrist, leaves you plain
save a washed out grin, you face running

away ahead of you. You wander off, one golden hand wasted
hailing cabs, stroking thighs,
digging graves.

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