It was through a haze of cigarette smoke and red light
leaking from the pickup-truck
that you first laid eyes upon
my ass.
You were holding court with your drunken fellows
in the parking lot behind the bar,
on that frigid evening.
I was taking a shortcut home with a friend
when we stumbled into your kingdom,
where you three whooped and whistled
and raised your drinks
to being studs.
Perhaps
you took our hurried steps,
and the way we put as much distance
between us as we could,
for the playful shyness of young maidens
whispering about a handsome Lord from afar.
Perhaps
you took the way I raised my chin
and squared my shoulders
at the sight of you and your leering friends,
as the sly invitation
of a courtesan.
And though it was the bloodrush to your pants talking,
I’m sure it was with best intentions
that you hollered,
“Hey ladies, nice asses! Keep on walkin’!”
with majestic slurs and spittle
as you stood, chest puffed and proud.
You stood as if your presence alone would warm this place,
as if you were a great, burning hearth to lie beside.
Though,
I confess I didn’t feel the warmth you must have hoped for.
There’s too much frost in my unfeeling heart
to beat for such sweet words as yours.
I’m sorry for the ache you must have felt
after I rejected your affections with a snarled,
“I’ll fucking gut you!”
I’m sorry that I shocked you into silence
as you seemed so surprised when neither of us swooned,
when we didn’t fall against each other,
giggling and fanning ourselves
against a sudden rush of heat.
We should’ve been in awe
of the way you were able to pierce
through the layers of our sweaters and coats
to see our maidenly forms hidden beneath,
of the way you really saw us.
Though,
I wonder
if you would be as willing to undress
the layers of our hearts
as you were to undress
the layers of our clothes.
And I’m so sorry that the force of my words
knocked your paper-crown askew.
I’m sorry if the pins holding it together
stuck you as they rained down.
I’m sorry if you saw yourself
the way I saw you that night--
as the reigning King of Pricks.
Bio:
Darby Murnane is a graduate student journalist with the University of North of Texas, and holds a BFA in Creative Writing from the University of Maine at Farmington. When she’s not writing hard news, she’s scribbling lines for a short story or personal essay in the middle of the night.