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Night Out With The Girls
by Victoria Field

i.m. Anne Sexton and Sylvia Plath

When the nights are long and dense with darkness
you stand either side of my bed, whispering
offering to save me from weight
tempting me with death.

You say, hey, he isn’t heavy like a boulder
he’s a ping-pong ball you can blow over
The coffee cups and laugh at
as pretty as pills, as light as gas.

You invite me to Boston and we three
drink too many Martinis and invite him
to join us. He sits grinning
as innocent as his empty chair.

You are better acquainted and older
Than me and can tease him
He is nothing more than the handwriting
missing from the Christmas cards

the wobbling memory of a face
unseen for years. The utterly
inconsequential pet no longer
at the door. You smile and stroke my hair.

You clever, clever angels
convince me he’s a toy suitable for
women of loveliness.
His nothingness moistens my lips.

We drink and laugh and I leave
the bar with the blank-eyed boy.
I take him home and call him mine
and stroke the soft tunnel of his back.

He’s here, he’s here beside me
He’s sleeping.