The Getaway: Palm Springs

Chloe Martinez

Sound puzzle, you cluck irritatingly on the living room floor 
when left to your own devices, or stay silent when prompted,
or else you moo. Guilt gift from a trip on which I hardly had time

to touch a cactus. Mother-love, mother leaving, “girls’ getaway” 
weekend experiment. Poolside time fraught with 
phone calls. My friends, the two Jennies, in their bright 

sundresses, well, we did have a drink in one of those
Sinatra bars, something about the moon, full of rather joyful
possibly alcoholic retirees. By the morning I’m pacing around

the mid-century modern antique shop, the sun rising over the
fiberglass dinosaur off Route Ten as the Jennies consider
fiestaware and my clock runs out. You have learned new

grammatical constructions just to demand my immediate
return, all night. My breasts ache anyway, still trained to
produce for you, and still, there is nothing better than your anger

silenced by your hunger. Suck, suck, you eye me through your
long lashes. How much longer? Child, just wait until you
taste a little freedom. You’ll want always more, and more.