Nancy Lee
Night at the Horseshoe
By the pool table a huddle
of college girls, flared and feathered, shuffling
darts, jukebox preaching heartbreak and my dad
propped at the bar, gawking, greased
knuckles, wallet empty.
Back at the house, my mom soaks race car mags
in lighter fluid, scores work shirts with shears,
her face cooking
red with his lies. Dinner cold,
dishpan hands tight for a night of tallying faults.
Later, when he hits her, a reflection will tumble
in the window, and she’ll gasp
at the trespasser falling outside. So why rush
when I can slink from booth to booth, down yeasty
inches of beer, suck the lipsticked tips of half-smoked
cigarettes, sulk in my French cuts
and halter until I’m slumped beside
a man whose t-shirt marshmallows over his belt,
his fat ringed fingers picking at my denim pleats.
When the bartender shouts, Who let
the goddamned kid in? my dad will turn,
eyes leaking gin. Her torn pin-curls, bloody nose
and loose teeth for six nights after the titter of girls
at the dart board marking time.
of college girls, flared and feathered, shuffling
darts, jukebox preaching heartbreak and my dad
propped at the bar, gawking, greased
knuckles, wallet empty.
Back at the house, my mom soaks race car mags
in lighter fluid, scores work shirts with shears,
her face cooking
red with his lies. Dinner cold,
dishpan hands tight for a night of tallying faults.
Later, when he hits her, a reflection will tumble
in the window, and she’ll gasp
at the trespasser falling outside. So why rush
when I can slink from booth to booth, down yeasty
inches of beer, suck the lipsticked tips of half-smoked
cigarettes, sulk in my French cuts
and halter until I’m slumped beside
a man whose t-shirt marshmallows over his belt,
his fat ringed fingers picking at my denim pleats.
When the bartender shouts, Who let
the goddamned kid in? my dad will turn,
eyes leaking gin. Her torn pin-curls, bloody nose
and loose teeth for six nights after the titter of girls
at the dart board marking time.
Girl with Bear
In a basement den, beer light moon,
electric fire, bark walls. The boy buckles
and unbuckles, nods to AC/DC, determined
to get his money’s worth. Buzzed on gulps
of rum and Coke, the girl counts daylight
through a grimy window slit. The bear skin
prickles her arches; its ratty tanned edge clings
to her heels. The boy says, Get down.
She kneels and kneads, expects animal plush
but squeezes guard hair, oiled and rough.
The boy says, My dad won it in a card game.
Reeked like a whore’s snatch until he had it
cleaned. She stretches to the paws, scabby
leather weights, plucks its talons. How long
before she can walk to Paul’s Sub, sit quiet
in the greased air and eat? Kiss it, he says.
She tries not to roll her eyes, opens her mouth
against the bear’s neck: rain sluiced pollen,
crusted grubs, cedar rot, an eddy of salmon
scales. What does your dad do down here?
Her fingers patter hard glass eyes, a snout’s
proud jut, satin rimmed mouth, teeth like horn
and rock. When the tongue rattles loose, stiff
and varnished in her palm, she squeals, retreats
to velvet ears rubbed for luck. Fuck, the boy says.
He has pulled on a ball cap and mirrored
sunglasses. Drink empty, belt wound ’round
his fist, he is as strong as his father.
Trees close overhead, pine brush crackles.
The bear rumbles with dreams, roused by her
wrists tied near his mouth. Just a whiff of her
and he’s arching, ready to bite down.
electric fire, bark walls. The boy buckles
and unbuckles, nods to AC/DC, determined
to get his money’s worth. Buzzed on gulps
of rum and Coke, the girl counts daylight
through a grimy window slit. The bear skin
prickles her arches; its ratty tanned edge clings
to her heels. The boy says, Get down.
She kneels and kneads, expects animal plush
but squeezes guard hair, oiled and rough.
The boy says, My dad won it in a card game.
Reeked like a whore’s snatch until he had it
cleaned. She stretches to the paws, scabby
leather weights, plucks its talons. How long
before she can walk to Paul’s Sub, sit quiet
in the greased air and eat? Kiss it, he says.
She tries not to roll her eyes, opens her mouth
against the bear’s neck: rain sluiced pollen,
crusted grubs, cedar rot, an eddy of salmon
scales. What does your dad do down here?
Her fingers patter hard glass eyes, a snout’s
proud jut, satin rimmed mouth, teeth like horn
and rock. When the tongue rattles loose, stiff
and varnished in her palm, she squeals, retreats
to velvet ears rubbed for luck. Fuck, the boy says.
He has pulled on a ball cap and mirrored
sunglasses. Drink empty, belt wound ’round
his fist, he is as strong as his father.
Trees close overhead, pine brush crackles.
The bear rumbles with dreams, roused by her
wrists tied near his mouth. Just a whiff of her
and he’s arching, ready to bite down.
What It Was Like
The best was having nothing. No hope.
We wore what we wore: low-cut, tasselled,
pleathered, hitched up the thigh. In the sweaty
press to the club, we smacked away comers,
nails sharpened to pins. They sucked wounds,
called us bitches but with a smile, the word
reeking of aftershave and jet fuel. We danced
alone, a loose hipped shimmy, knees spread.
Without hope we were effervescent, ascendant,
skinning atmosphere, lights full of stars.
Terrestrials circled in ball caps and jerseys,
in Lacoste, in waxy black lambskin
scrunched to elbows. We danced in orbit,
backsides together, faced out, stared through
those men like space dust. Bitches.
After the club, we’d float in a wire capsule
of fire escape, smoke clove cigarettes, sip
warm juice and vodka, free ankles from buckles.
The city winked below, men shrunk to specks
in the alley. We listened for sirens, distress
calls of girls still waiting for lift-off.
We wore what we wore: low-cut, tasselled,
pleathered, hitched up the thigh. In the sweaty
press to the club, we smacked away comers,
nails sharpened to pins. They sucked wounds,
called us bitches but with a smile, the word
reeking of aftershave and jet fuel. We danced
alone, a loose hipped shimmy, knees spread.
Without hope we were effervescent, ascendant,
skinning atmosphere, lights full of stars.
Terrestrials circled in ball caps and jerseys,
in Lacoste, in waxy black lambskin
scrunched to elbows. We danced in orbit,
backsides together, faced out, stared through
those men like space dust. Bitches.
After the club, we’d float in a wire capsule
of fire escape, smoke clove cigarettes, sip
warm juice and vodka, free ankles from buckles.
The city winked below, men shrunk to specks
in the alley. We listened for sirens, distress
calls of girls still waiting for lift-off.
*The opening line of this poem comes from Tracy K. Smith’s “At Some Point, They’ll Want to Know What It Was Like”, which appears in Life on Mars (Graywolf Press 2011).
Hen Night
That night, after tiaras and shooters,
after the oiled grind of waxed male strippers,
we prowled the boulevard teased and bothered,
saw that guy, and cat-called, Hey Baby,
we want to ask you something.
Hold up, Loverboy, don’t be that way!
Followed him through the gravel parking lot.
How angry his primping made us, hair gel,
aftershave, Euro-fitted shirt. We threw
a pebble to get his attention,
but it pecked the back of his head and he ran
We chased, afraid he might call the cops,
until we pinned him to the boards
of a construction site fence, air pink
with our cosmo breath. And one of us
said, Shhh, we don’t want to hurt you,
and we knew then how badly we did.
How easy to push fingers into his mouth.
Just a little kiss, open wide, to twist
every button from his shirt. How many
hands to hold a man steady, how many
women carry knives in a purse? At home
we watched our babies sleep. Slid
into beds beside husbands, their dreams
of green fees, tax shelters, reno plans
for the den. We said, There, there, dear.
Don’t worry yourself sick. All the time tasting
that boy’s Axe-scented blood, half-eaten
heart, smelling him on our feathers,
his ruin, and our hungry clucks.
after the oiled grind of waxed male strippers,
we prowled the boulevard teased and bothered,
saw that guy, and cat-called, Hey Baby,
we want to ask you something.
Hold up, Loverboy, don’t be that way!
Followed him through the gravel parking lot.
How angry his primping made us, hair gel,
aftershave, Euro-fitted shirt. We threw
a pebble to get his attention,
but it pecked the back of his head and he ran
We chased, afraid he might call the cops,
until we pinned him to the boards
of a construction site fence, air pink
with our cosmo breath. And one of us
said, Shhh, we don’t want to hurt you,
and we knew then how badly we did.
How easy to push fingers into his mouth.
Just a little kiss, open wide, to twist
every button from his shirt. How many
hands to hold a man steady, how many
women carry knives in a purse? At home
we watched our babies sleep. Slid
into beds beside husbands, their dreams
of green fees, tax shelters, reno plans
for the den. We said, There, there, dear.
Don’t worry yourself sick. All the time tasting
that boy’s Axe-scented blood, half-eaten
heart, smelling him on our feathers,
his ruin, and our hungry clucks.
NANCY LEE is the author of Dead Girls, a collection of short stories, and The Age, a novel, both published by McClelland and Stewart. Her poetry has appeared in Canadian Literature, CV2, Event Magazine, Prism International, Occulum and The Puritan.