Inheritance
by Carla Criscuolo
I will leave you to his coy smile,
visible even over sixteen hundred
miles of telephone wire,
and the empty compliments
he throws at your feet, casually
as an old man tossing crumbs
to pigeons, the same ones
he used to feed me every night,
laced with just the right amount
of sugar and sexuality. I will
leave you to the emergency
phone calls rattling you awake
at one in the morning, his avalanche
of panting words describing
that evening's bar brawl,
and the adolescent pride he takes in
reciting the damage inflicted upon
his opponent; bloody nose,
broken rib, dislocated jaw. I
will leave you to worry when
his nightly call does not come,
and thoughts of cops cuffing
his pale hands behind his back,
or his thin frame lying mangled
at the bottom of a ravine jump
to mind, and with them, the nagging
whisper that your worst fears
are unfounded; that he is off, instead,
with another woman, the sort who
wears a garter belt under her skirt
and pulls up her stockings languidly,
leaving you to nibble at your nails,
in search of a justification
that will allow you to let him stay.
CARLA CRISCUOLO was born and raised in Manhattan and claims the experience has spoiled her so badly she is not fit to live anywhere else. She has a B.A. degree in Creative Writing from Knox College that she is obnoxiously proud of. She works at Sarah Lawrence College in Bronxville, NY.
I will leave you to his coy smile,
visible even over sixteen hundred
miles of telephone wire,
and the empty compliments
he throws at your feet, casually
as an old man tossing crumbs
to pigeons, the same ones
he used to feed me every night,
laced with just the right amount
of sugar and sexuality. I will
leave you to the emergency
phone calls rattling you awake
at one in the morning, his avalanche
of panting words describing
that evening's bar brawl,
and the adolescent pride he takes in
reciting the damage inflicted upon
his opponent; bloody nose,
broken rib, dislocated jaw. I
will leave you to worry when
his nightly call does not come,
and thoughts of cops cuffing
his pale hands behind his back,
or his thin frame lying mangled
at the bottom of a ravine jump
to mind, and with them, the nagging
whisper that your worst fears
are unfounded; that he is off, instead,
with another woman, the sort who
wears a garter belt under her skirt
and pulls up her stockings languidly,
leaving you to nibble at your nails,
in search of a justification
that will allow you to let him stay.
CARLA CRISCUOLO was born and raised in Manhattan and claims the experience has spoiled her so badly she is not fit to live anywhere else. She has a B.A. degree in Creative Writing from Knox College that she is obnoxiously proud of. She works at Sarah Lawrence College in Bronxville, NY.
