poetry

The First Wife
     - Mandy Peters

Raise your glass to Vegas, boys
your first wife has been sent
down the sticky river.
Take the sheets off the mirrors,
pack your suitcases,
grab your dollars.

The first husband gets on the plane,
crosses himself with Jack Daniels,
dreams of roulette
landing on Red 32.
Her color. Her age.

Raise your glasses to Vegas boys
Count your chips.
Tip the dealer.
Let's dance on the grave.

The first husband grieves
table to table a hundred
bucks up three shots down.
When they married,
she smelled like lilacs.

The first wife can't remember
the words do not exist.
Her fingers fade in your mind.
She is a Polaroid working backwards
disappearing into white,
then a flash.