Power is grinning 

over fine, chipped crockery

because one look can fill your purse

with the boons and lavishings of the men

who, undefended, love you.

---

No, they are not victims, 

and if they whine from wounds, 

they’re not your doing. 

Someone made them look for love to buy,

just as someone made you market. 

---

The one thing worse than death

looks with fuzzy eyes

at the payment in purple tissue paper—

the heels, the lace, the choker—

and the wretch in diamond-dripping dress

who threw her heart upon a platter of catfish

and ate until she puked. 

---

It’s a long and welcome haunting. 

No one can love you, gut you, like the thing

that flakes to fish food at the bottom of the lake

between home and O’Hare, where you waited hours, 

sending petty texts because he was late.

---

Take the mint.

Tip a dollar,

and shrug into the safety of your mink.