by Dawn Corrigan

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There’s a photo of our host in a prior life.
They sit around a table, two couples
and a third woman. It’s noticeable
the group doesn’t include his present wife.

The odd woman doesn’t smile. She knows
how to coax curves from her slim body.
A skirt sneaks up her crossed legs; her hand poses
over a drink. (I think it’s a martini.)

Except for her, the room is in shadows
as though the lamps still owe her loyalty.
If she were here now I’d say to her
what another woman once said to me:
You and I could sit in a room together
and stare out of separate windows.

Dawn Corrigan has published poems, short fiction, and other miscellany in a number of print and online journals including Poetry, The Paris Review, and The Linnet’s Wings. She lives in Gulf Breeze, Florida, with her husband.
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Pat Jones
Published 20 May 2010