Poem in which Mason Verger does not appear

Admit it: it would be better if he honeyed
his drink with the grief in you. Like maybe,
if his lips were drawn with cackle, with sneer, you might
have better earned your ankle’s inward twist. If
you were some lovely hog, some elegant crane
of neck and jodhpur fit to be fed for screaming,
then you might tuck his simple villainy into the cedar chest
that holds your finer messes. Instead, he is spit curl
& heather tee, feathered voice and underbite. When it’s over,
he stops asking why you’re crying
to buoy your conversation with quips on Milton
he’d told you once before. In this, he foregoes swish of cloak
& makes your mouth into an apology, its syllables trailing
behind you
in dark morning, a braid.

By Jacqueline Boucher

Biography:

Jacqueline Boucher lives and writes in Northern Michigan. Her work was a finalist for the 2016 Write Bloody manuscript contest, and has appeared in BOOTH, SmokeLong Quarterly, Hobart, and other magazines. She can be found on Twitter @jacqueboucher.