Elizabeth Harrington

Fear

I am surprised by its weight, the silky feel
of the barrel. He snaps, shuttles,
shows me the safety lock--
all the while his face a flat climate.
I’m wondering if this, too,
reminds him of the war.
Surprising to learn that he carried
this Smith and Wesson
all evening long.  Into the restaurant
where a table next to us erupted
in celebration.  Into the movies
where we sat too close
to the screen.  Into my bedroom
where we made love with our eyes open
in a darkness held by four walls.
Tonight we were happy.
We smiled at the waiter.
We let him pour wine
into our fragile glasses, never saying “when”.
Now I sit with a gun between my legs
next to this man I know only from the outside.
He asks if I ever considered keeping one
for protection.  I tell him I’m not afraid.
But my heart is pounding.
When I lift the gun, it’s thrilling
and devoid of tenderness.  When I watch
his face, I know he is capable
of harm and I am capable of allowing it--
this tendency I have
to step off the edge and fall
weightless into love,
where nothing holds back the dark,
and the trajectory of pain is infinite.

Can You Beat That?

I love bed bath & beyond and I know what I want and know what I know and I like it that it’s big and it always smells good, soapy sort of and has what I need so why would I want more merchandise. PLUS they regularly send me 20 percent off coupons no expiration date and they take back anything you buy no questions asked whatever shape it’s in.  Once I took back a room screen already assembled 30 two and a half inch gold screws and all--can you beat that--no of course not not to mention it saved my life when I moved here because I moved here heartbroken and would wander the aisles at the elmsford store and it felt like a big white hug and once it was late but I didn’t realize just pushing the heart I mean cart in front of me until an employee came up to me and gently said miss and I said what and he said we’re closing now and I said oh so taken was I walking down the fragrant row of candles standing tall I didn’t notice and when I went out through the whooshing doors the whole bunch of employees was lined up they had been waiting for me the very last customer to leave and smiling they were smiling seven ways to Sunday each and every one wearing CAN I HELP YOU? safety-pinned to their shirts and I ask you, can you beat that?  no.

Just Casual

We begin with drink, candles, cloth napkins on laps—
under other circumstances the moon.

How he poured!  How we chewed,
gnawing on artichoke hearts

and duck a l’orange.
How we hurried to be happy

(Isn’t that what we’re here for?)
hailing a cab to his place.

Oh, Freud, has it come to this?
Something in the male mien of long legs

in black jeans.  An arm along the sofa.  And suddenly
an imbroglio involving teeth, touching, and so on.

Even as I sip espresso in the afterward,
even as I button myself in crushed

clothes, even as I step over the body
of his cat, he’s my familiar, my new narcotic.

God knows, I know him little enough.
And what are we without illusion?