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Stacy Pratt

I shave my legs with his razor,
when I shave them at all. He left
it beneath the bathroom sink,
along with his dental floss, hair gel,
two kinds of toothpaste, and his shampoo
which I’m boycotting
because the commercials offend me.

He also left the rest of the Raisin Bran,
which I keep eating even though
it turns to mulch in the bowl
and raisins make me sick in the eyebrows.
Other than that, I only eat things
that can be held in a paper towel,
and I never sit at the table.

Some nights I wear his Black Flag
t-shirt to bed even though it makes me sweat
and I end up wrestling it off at 3 a.m.,
cursing Henry Rollins. And I wear
cotton panties they sell fifteen
to a bag instead of those flimsy
things you find on round tables
in stores that smell like perfume.

Sometimes I don’t do the laundry,
and it piles up. Wet washcloths
hang over the side of the basket
and dry into sculpture. So I use napkins
to wash my face and end up with pastel
confetti along my hairline.

I hope he’s happy.
I hope he knows he’ll have no dental floss
left by the time he gets back. He better
not say a word about the marginal notes
I’ve left in his war novels, or think
that just because I married him
I will use shampoo that invalidates women.

I dare him to come home right now
and make me. If I could talk to him,
that’s what I’d say: You want me to cook
real food and act civilized? I wish you would
come home

this instant

and make me