Intimate Disasters

by Nin Andrews


I murdered a man.
It made no difference.
So I murdered him again.
Of course no one would believe I could do such a thing.
It became a habit. I got used to it,
but I never really enjoyed it.
The therapist said it’s no big deal.
A lot of women have fantasies like that.
It’s what marriage is all about.
Meanwhile my dead husband sat in the chair,
saying nothing.
He’d been saying that for a long time.
I forgot to tell her that.


A woman makes love as never before.
She is wildly in love.
She announces it to everyone she sees.
Never has there been a love like hers,
not in any kingdom by any sea.
Of this, she is sure. Or so she thinks.
But time passes and she wonders.
She even asks her therapists.
Is this just lust? Or the real thing?
She asks her lover, fuck me again.
Why, he asks. Didn’t i already do that once?
Must we do it again?
What do you think I am? A dress shop,
or the kind of thing you try on again and again?


A woman shops only at expensive boutiques.
She goes to one store, slips on a new skirt
and wears it out into the street, admiring
her reflection in the window
before slipping into another shop,
trying on a pair of designer jeans
and a silk blouse and wearing these until the next shop.
At the end of the day she is tired of shopping.
She thinks of all the clothes she has left behind.
She was careful to drop them in garbage pails,
never to leave any in the actual stores.
She hates the idea of anyone wearing her things.

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