she had tried meditation before

sappy swirls of new-age sucking

away at her soul

a cosmopolitan fixed it up all right;

sophistication stirred with

a sour olive (she wished her lovers

could be as sweetly contradictory)

--

sometimes she felt eyes on her back

on those lonely nights with

nothing but cable for satisfaction

it was her shot of novocaine:

take once daily for so long

you forget when you started

--

he had called her Delilah

traitor, bitch

SLUT

and even though he closed the

door behind him

she still heard footsteps

--

and every time, she wondered

if the people she imagined behind her

were real

--

they never appeared when

she turned around