Haute Wasp is what she called her. I'm simply
Brown skin on shoes, bitter olives on my tongue.
She's lying in her bath, with bubbles across her breasts,
And riddle books and rubber duckies. She's scared
The warm water will make her heart stop beating.
A sad room, with thin curtains and nothing
Across my breasts. And still, I'm luckier. She
Is desperate and old, I'm simply desperate. And
We've both got lives to live- even if hers
Is only worth it in the water.
I don't know how her story ends. Elizabeth with
The husband who doesn't love her, the lover
Who killed himself. Elizabeth with the dead sister,
And continually beating heart.
I do know mine.