Lindsey Webb

*

JULIA CONSIDERS LEAVING THE HOUSE 

There’s dance music jumping out
of her neighbor’s window: an ordered death, beat
after beat. Next door, Julia feels desirable
as a cucumber left out, long since soft. Speaking of living
rooms and bodies hers throb like a banged knee. Look
at her, nodding her tentative cucumber head
by the open window, goosebumped arms, staring
at the girl pinwheeling on her
neighbor’s balcony and thinking ridiculous
but at least she’s a person, Julia, hot
under her skin collar. Sex
and parking lots pulse in pink lights
while she keeps quiet by the window
in borrowed heat,
a refrigerator with the door open.

*

*

JULIA RIDES THE BUS

Julia’s destination is not approaching. Burger
King passes on the left, a toddler
punches his mother. Julia’s head
reflects, briefly. In the woman’s surprise mouth
then it’s not. Disembodied or all body? Like a window,
she forgets. But the little first against her head. And something
burns near Julia’s eyebrows. Is it religion, finally?
The windshield knows but reveals not. Someone is on
the phone. Says, “sure, rabbits.” Someone else: “take me
off speaker-phone.” Someone else: “people die in restaurants.”
Everyone wears glasses. Julia turns inward
by pulling a jacket over her head. No one minds.

*

*

JULIA POACHES AN EGG

_________________________But trailing clouds of glory do we come
_________________________________From God, who is our home.
___________________________________________-Wordsworth
They say this is difficult to do
correctly. The women on the TV
say this with big white
teeth and two spoons. Julia
assembles her ingredients, boils
water. The women on the TV emphasize round,
firm. Julia’s egg panics, TV egg globes,
surrenders. Perhaps it was paid. Her egg: white
foam, then a hundred
arms. Julia is ashamed: somehow she has failed
the substance. She gives
up, eats with the women on the TV, sliming
the counter a little.

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