When Nick Cave Comes to Dinner

Everything will be in black and white
            the plates, the prairie dress his wife designed,
Nick’s eyebrows, more black than white to match
            his chin-planed hair, the dissonant music’s
discordance, even the hors d’œurves of caviar
and sour cream. And, there will be smoke,
lots of it, from just not mouths or candle wicks but
from the sea’s fog drifting through the dining
window. In our shroud, we will pour Pinot Grigio
and whiskeys neat, sway between conversations,
while he walks away, the hallway’s open door beckoning,
his black-jacketed back enframed, and soon,
we will follow, mirrored in the passing windows, the littoral cliff
that cast his son sixty feet downward watching us move,
our feet shedding oxfords and heels, ice cubes clanking, until
he stops at the tub’s clawfeet, scoops the air to his sides,
then gestures forward, hand behind hand reaching hand,
            until we are all settled, aglow in alabaster.

Amy Lerman was born and raised on Miami Beach, moved to the Midwest for many years, and now lives with her husband and very spoiled cats in the Arizona desert, where she is residential English Faculty at Mesa Community College. She received her Master’s and Ph.D. in American Literature from the University of Kansas, and her poems have appeared in Rattle, Smartish Pace, Common Ground Review, Prime Number Magazine, Solstice, and other publications.

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