Camelot
By J. Elyse Kihlstrom

wouldn't be Camelot

if it weren't for the subtle break,

the tear, the hairline fracture brimming

at the cold rim

of the vase,

even glued down, encased in glass -- the rare

Northeastern earthquake --

the manicured nail serrated

like a steak knife,

makeshift corkscrew

for the perfect Shiraz in late September,

the pantyhose snagged

on an unsanded wall hook,

slipping by with a plate of hors d'oeuvres.

It's all beyond repair again,

and our conscientious hostess knows

it well,

so she takes another blue martini

from the tray,

as if to say the hell

with this, steps onto the balcony,

invisible in masquerade

of night, swims for a face that never knew her,

sound or sight,

and makes a casual remark,

the night, the moon, the summer

ending. It's the sound of her own voice

that oddly moves her.

And this gorgeous spot they have

a woman gushes.

Oh, I know, she murmurs back.

And he --

(this vapid parasite,

sipping her wine, not knowing her

from Adam)

What does he do?

Oh yes.

Such a pair, those two.

Oh yes, oh yes.

No children yet?

I didn't think so.

She climbs out of the trellis,

after midnight, legs bare,

sandals hung by their own straps,

jumps the gate

and dips beneath

the surface of the pool,

that's black and still,

and cold,

but no use shrieking like a child

when not a ripple

could resound above

the swaying samba

overhead, the clatter of heels

on the weatherproof deck boards,

not even a splatter.