Megan Horsthuis
Vienna
After buying a standing
ticket to the opera
I wished I’d saved
my thirteen euros.
Can you see anything?
I whispered to Jo
who was golden
and engrossed
in the banister.
She had a father
who brought her
to the opera
which desensitized her
to wearing real fur
and rubbing pearls
against teeth.
I had a hippie
for a father
meaning the world
still held many mysteries
I wanted
to understand. The night
I collapsed drunk
into my lover’s arms
with a faux red fox
wrapped
around my throat
while he tucked a spliff
between
my wet lips.
I was leaving
and his hands
smelled like hash.
The wind outside
the opera house
was damp
and husky
with overuse.
Still in our girlish
parody
of black-tie attire
we shared
one meatless schnitzel
in an empty room
we ate right up
to the boundary
between
halves.
These were our
Linklater days:
Jesse and Céline
swallow the world
Jesse and Céline
pretend
not to love
one another
or run away
still trying.
Tonight
I am the dead fox.
I am content
to hang
from her neck.
My wet lips
form the great O
in Figaro.