by Abigail Zimmer
The other thing to remember about Italian opera
is that your hair should be long and inviting
so that a lover may come or that you may strangle one
who tries to leave. Most of the day not spent singing is
spent in the bathtub. The last time I washed my hair,
it was raining. Outside, it was raining and inside I was
washing my hair. There was water everywhere so I tried
not to think about the ruination of my life as done by me
when I am awkward and talking a lot about allergens
and the endangered honeybee. The Italian opera has also
ruined lives. There is always someone fainting or slurring
syllables in the last aria or generally not having enough sex
because it’s time to sing. The pasta man down the street
has never heard opera, but he cuts the most refined
curls of fettuccini that make me want to rub his floured
fingertips across my face. Not everything needs
saving. Today I lay curled on the cement across
from the place you house your love. The opera is growing
louder and I am trying to tell you something beautiful
with my hands, but your gaze has shifted to another window.
Not even your dog peers out. Not even your dog.
