by rachel berry
A husband and a wife walk into a bar.
They are, of course, not each other’s.
Just lovers, just for a while, for now
and how this escalator to the bottom
of the ocean will end is simple.
Sand. She’ll hold their hourglass on its side,
decide on another glass of Pinot,
and show him, slowly, the architecture
of her left breast. At night, bars become chapels,
and full of whiskey or was it bourbon,
her shirt undone enough for it not to matter,
their chatter, their whispers, are as wet as vows.